


Dancing with demons

by VinnyHagen



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Circle of Magi, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Orsino in the Inquisition, Romance, Slow Build, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 59,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinnyHagen/pseuds/VinnyHagen
Summary: Here I present you an attempt to do justice to First Enchanter Orsino, as I’m pretty sure he deserves to experience some nice adventures, selfless love and other interesting things. And with Fenris, because why not? And in passing I’d like to fill up, expand and remedy some parts of the original Dragon Age plot where Bioware were too bloodthirsty for my liking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we got some fluff (but not too soon – actually, not soon at all), Inquisition, blood mages and a lot of talking about the Circles, magic, freedom and what freedom really means.  
> This is, by the way, a translation of my own fanfic; I’m doing this to improve my English, as it re-eally needs upgrading and polishing (unfortunately, English grammar is not a piece of cake for me). And translating my own work is easier – no one is here to tell you that they didn’t mean this or that. So, all mistakes are my own, and feel free to point them to me – I’ll be very grateful, since I’m not a native speaker and just don’t feel the language as I’d have liked.

Fenris was leaning against the Chantry wall, feeling grumpy as always, and listened with half an ear to the usual shouting. Today the loudest portion of shouting was done by the mages, who were upset about something – _again_ – and blamed the templars – hell, _again_ ; the templars for their part were quite used to all that tussle and snarled at the mages, laying their own claims. Cullen was trying to calm them all down, but with no luck.

The Grumpy Elf cringed in disdain. Sometimes it looked like they were trying to make soldiers out of pigeons: people were doing it all wrong, just like those annoying birds, and stubbornly insisted on being stupid. It wasn’t the first time Fenris regretted going along with Cullen. Hell, this Inquisition business did sound interesting at first, but after seeing the actual place and people Fenris wanted to bump his head at the nearest wall (the brand-new Commander most likely felt the same): all they had was a handful of bitchy mages with a few bitter templars, some pilgrims, several soldiers and _a damn lot_ of angry clergymen. The only bright point in that predicament was the Kirkwall Circle of Magi, as almost everyone from it came here with Cullen (though _almost_ was the word Fenris did not like to dwell on). They were mostly keeping to themselves, distant and quiet, and comparing to the other lot they were as well-behaved as only the angels could be.

The Chantry doors opened with a loud screech.

“Hello there! Surprise, surprise!” said Varric in a singsong voice as he entered the Chantry hall. “The Herald doesn’t know it yet, bit she does have a great surprise for you! And by _you_ I mean Curly, of course. And you too, Broody. Come on, have a look!”

Fenris made his best grumpy face. He didn’t like surprises and he was certain he wouldn’t like whatever news Varric brought (as the dwarf had been at patrol with the Herald and others, he obviously came here ahead of them just to yell about this surprise – hell, that made Fenris nervous), so the elf reluctantly left his spot near the wall.

Then again, the elf was feeling a bit sluggish for the last few months. His _very_ few close friends knew the reasons of his apathy and were sympathetic; the others in Haven kept away from the silent grumpy elf with strange markings - especially the recruits Fenris helped training. They experienced first-hand the reason why Fenris was also called the Lyrium Ghost; on the other hand, as Cullen liked to say, now little could have scared those recruits in a real battle.

Varric was trying to hold back his smile, but with no success: it kept peeping out by lifting one or the other corner of his mouth. The dwarf looked pleased with himself, and it was a rare sight these days; so, Cullen, Josephine and Leliana came out of the Chantry, just like Varric asked, with Fenris in tow. The elf narrowed his eyelids – the snow was too white and bright after the gloomy Chantry hall. Soon he realized, that there were new people coming to Haven: most of them were certainly mages (the staffs were a dead giveaway). No usual robes though, as the mages decided in favour of more warm clothes. Everyone recognized that they were accompanied by the red-headed Lavellan girl and others who went on patrol. Although Cullen and Fenris both suddenly turned white as they noticed a thin, slender figure of a man – elf, actually, who carried a very familiar staff with three beautifully carved snake heads.

“First Enchanter…” said Cullen quietly, clearly not believing his eyes; he took one step towards, then the second, and the next moment he ran, stumbling on the fresh snow. He caught the elf in his arms and embraced him, not giving a damn about what people would think. “Orsino! We thought you died out there!”

“Well, the rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” Orsino gave him an embarrassed smile, surprised by such an emotional greeting. “Or not so greatly, since I did spend three months in coma at the healers. I awoke not long ago and found out there had been a civil war, mage rebellion and a hole in the sky! How did it all happen at your watch, captain?”

Cullen let the pin go by: he was used to the First Enchanter’s ironic remarks. Commander even thought his sarcasm endearing – who wouldn’t, if all that sarcasm was usually directed at your commanding officer who really knew how to piss you off? So he just laughed good-naturedly.

Fenris on the other hand froze on the spot. What was going on here? Maybe it was a fault of a particularly devious demon, who crawled from that hole in the sky and managed to sneak at Fenris and take his mind away from him? Because it just wasn’t possible. It must have been some elaborate lie… But the sun was bright as always, dazzling his eyes - just like the real sun does. And the voice was familiar, ironic as ever – no demon should be capable of replicating it. The snake heads on the staff were the same too; though the robes were different, blue instead of Kirkwall red and gray ones, and the Enchanter’s hair were much longer then the last time he saw him… A demon couldn’t come up with these small details, right?

Cullen finally let go of his former charge and gave him a smile so bright, that the wintery landscape around Haven felt warmer for a moment. “Thank Andraste you survived! Orsino, you sly fox – but how? Elana, Richard, you are here too!” said he, turning to the other two mages, who smiled politely in return. “It is a real miracle you are all here! You came to join the Inquisition, yes? We do need all the help we can get”.

“Of course. Our Circle is here, so we came to join too. Although, we may not be much of help – we need help ourselves, I’m afraid,” sighed Orsino. “Well, you certainly can count on me and those two, here also are two elemental mages and three healers, but that is all. Others are just children, barely of age or even younger. I wouldn’t dare to send them on the battlefield – I’m not sure I can entrust them even to bring some bread from the shop”.

“Then we wouldn’t send them there. As for the bread and other food, the tavern is pretty close from here,” said Fenris, who finally managed to collect himself and come closer. “First Enchanter,” he nodded, acknowledging the mage presence.

“Fenris,” the elf smiled warmly to him and also nodded. “Good to see you there. Couldn’t stand aside too, did you?”

“Naturally,” said the Grumpy Elf composedly. But as the sun today was very bright, and it was clear that he blushed a little.

“Alright, let’s go in,” Cullen said, who was watching affectionately how the two elves talked. “You must be freezing after such a long walk! Sergeant! Bring firewood into the empty house and light a fire. And remember to bring three extra bundles!

The mages came after him gladly; most likely all they heard from the conversation was “bread”, “food” and “firewood”. They were indeed very young – too young for the war.

All others were a bit stunned. What was that? The newest Kirkwall history was mostly known by Varric’s tales, who liked to draw on imagination and made no secret of it. The dwarf himself raised his finger and said in a patronizing tone. “That was a nice example of a harmonic relationship between a mage and a templar, as it should have been.”

“Maybe, once we all live in a fairy-tale,” said Lavellan.

But hell yeah, it was good.

Fenris again froze at the spot like an elf-statue with his eyes glued to the Enchanter’s back. Varric jabbed his elbow into his ribs in a friendly manner, and winked at his angry glare. He did know the Grumpy Elf for a long time, after all.

…

The First Enchanter’s arrival was met with general delight: that wasn’t unexpected, not in the least, since there in Haven were a lot of templars and mages from the Kirkwall Circle. All that big crowd poured out into the street and greeted their former chief and long-lost colleagues with sincere joy. The templars, by the way, were all following Cullen’s steps and looked even more delighted with the Enchanter’s return than his mages. Some time later the storm of questions and happy cries started to calm down; the newly arrived people were escorted to their quarters. After making sure that his charges all got a room and essential supplies (and all they needed now was some rest and a good night sleep), Orsino finally got to a small house assigned to him. Here the worn-out Enchanter slowly settled on a chair. Cullen, who had been following him the entire time, put some more wood in the hearth where a fire was burning brightly – the flames burst into sparks and cracked loudly. Commander then sat near the mage.

“So, Orsino – please tell what happened to you. How did you survive the explosion? I’m still happy you did, no matter what,” added he.

Orsino looked at him, his expression amused. Whether Commander wanted it or not, his happiness was not so long ago stated loud and clear for everyone in Haven.

“Yeah, you do own us a tale now. We are all very curios,” agreed Varric, who slipped into a small room with grace that was usually associated with elves. After him Fenris silently entered, closed the door and leaned against the doorframe.

“Elana, Richard and I were at the side alcove when the Chantry exploded,” explained the Enchanter. “So, when the explosion started, we fell down the basement; have you known that the Chantry was built on the remains of some ancient Tevinter facilities? No? I didn’t too. That’s how you know you live in Kirkwall – it was the worst choice ever for a sacred building, but here it was! I don’t remember much of what happened next though: we dropped down into some old storage place, or maybe just a room sealed with magic, and I got under a very nasty curse. Elana and Richard helped me out; since there was no way up, they walked through the maze of tunnels and finally managed to get to the surface far away from Kirkwall. Here they met with a caravan that was going to Wildervale and came along. In Wildervale lives an old acquaintance of mine, a professional curse-breaker. As you can see, I’m alive only because my students refused to leave me behind, though it was a rather logical solution. I regained consciousness only a month ago; we heard that most mages from our Circle joined the Inquisition, and decided to follow their example. Other children are from the Highever Circle – we passed it by on our way here. The Highever mages seemed to be too busy with the rebellion to take proper – or any – care of their young”.

The First Enchanter sounded very displeased with the situation. Cullen knew Orsino always took his responsibilities very seriously and was fiercely protective of his charges; so the Commander gently touched the mage’s delicate shoulder:

“It’s good you brought them here then. Who knows what could have happened with these children if they stayed in Ferelden,” said he.

The Enchanter smiled tiredly in response and nodded. Cullen stood up from his chair and gestured the others to the exit.

“Have some rest, Orsino. You obviously need that,” said Cullen, moving towards the doors; here he paused for a bit and added. “I’m really, _really_ happy you did survive and come here”.

With this they left the room. The Enchanter relaxed on his chair for some time, enjoying the warmth of fire and trying to warm up his gloved hands. Afterward he pulled himself together, shook up – just like the wet mabari – and came out, fully intending to determine how the things stand here in the village.

By the evening the Enchanter had seen almost every place in Haven: he visited the tavern and chatted with all the regulars, made an acquaintance with Adan (and had with him a conversation so long, as if he was plotting a conspiracy), talked for a bit with Solas about some weird Fade business, discussed some gossip with Varric, looked at the training grounds together with Cullen and Cassandra, visited the forge and had a look at the stables with its only two horses, examined Segrit’s goods and had three rows with Chancellor Roderic. Later he confided in Cullen that after Meredith dealing with this Chancellor was a child's play.

Rian Lavellan found herself thinking that the Enchanter might have done better with the Mark. He obviously knew what he was doing, and it took him less then a day to efficiently fit into the village routine.

And he interacted with people a lot easier than her.

She took a long walk near the lake, trying to wrest down her sour mood, and finally settled on a bench. Here she was found by the elf in question.

“Herald,” smiled Orsino to her.

“I’m no Herald,” Lavellan pulled a face. “I don’t even remember what happened!”

“That’s why people are free to come up with any story they like,” said the Enchanter. He came closer. “Though if you are to remember one day, it is unlikely you’ll ever manage to prove there was no help from Andraste herself. People’s faith is a powerful thing. It is only logical that the Inquisition is trying to use that faith now”.

“Do you approve of that?” Lavellan asked. She was worried about it, as well as about all the fuss over this _the Herald of Andraste_ business. She also had a feeling that the Inquisition was going to do much more then just use this faith.

The elderly mage settled on a bench next to her and placed his staff near, leaning it against the same bench. A cloud of sparkling warming spell rose around them; Lavellan smiled and relaxed in a cozy warmth, while the mage signed contently and stretched his legs with great relish.

“One of a few perks of being a mage,” commented he. “Today was a long day”. From somewhere in his robe he produced a long thin pipe and started to fill it with tobacco from a small pouch.

“You… you smoke?” Lavellan gaped at the elf in astonishment. Smoking was mostly a dwarven habit, even humans indulged in it rarely. And she certainty had never seen a smoking elf.

“Yes,” smirked Orsino and puffed a small cloud of fragrant smoke, his enjoyment apparent. “I do need something to settle my nerves. As to the faith… You know, using it always feels bad. Like you are deceiving children – but those people are no children at all. Look at the other side: if people can’t do the right thing because it is their duty, because it is an honorable thing to do or because it is just reasonable, we have to find a way to make them. So it is actually their fault, not ours”.

The red-headed elf smiled and looked at Orsino. His eyes were sparkling with laughter.

“You are making fun of me!” said she.

“No way,” he narrowed his eyelids and gave her a cunning look. “Oh, I actually had a reason to search you out: I wanted to thank you for your help. It would have been much easier for you to walk away. These are troubled times now, and it could have ended ugly”.

Lavellan shrugged.

“You are welcome”.

They met with the mages at the bottom of Frostback Mountains: Lavellan with Cassandra, Varric, Solas and some Inquisition soldiers were on patrol there, scouting the terrain. It was an important task, as there were many demons around, not to mention hostile templars and mages. The only other way to keep these roads safe was to put soldiers on guard duty all around the mountains. Among other things, her advisers mentioned that the patrolling duty is a good practice for the future, and Lavellan was now very suspicious of what exactly they thought this future was going to be.

There the patrol saw a big crowd, mostly fishermen and hunters from the local village. The crowd surrounded an abandoned shack and bristled with knives and bows. People buzzed indignantly, nevertheless everyone could hear calm, clear voice of a mage, who was standing in the shack doors with obvious intention not to let anyone pass through. Lavellan didn’t know then why Varric stumbled on the ground and muttered something about hallucinations – she was too busy trying to prevent bloodshed.

The bottom of the issue was simple: angry locals caught a sight of the mages passing by and drove them into this shack, so they could deal with them for all they’d done to this world (looked like people were ready to blame for the Breach anyone they saw). So, Lavellan and her companions showed these people what they thought of them (by means of weapons and improper words) and send them home. And, as they learned the mages were heading to Haven, they decided to accompany them.

Hence Varric, who immediately came to the elder mage to talk while grinning like a Cheshire cat, introduced her to Orsino, the First Enchanter of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. The very same who had been considered dead for half a year at least – a fact that had many witnesses.

“Rian!” suddenly the shout came, and Cassandra stepped from the barracks. “Come, one of the Chantry’s Mothers wishes to talk to you”.

“I thought there were no Mothers here,” came the surprised reply from the elf.

“That’s why we are going to the Hinterlands to see her. If you don’t mind, of course,” answered the Seeker.

In fact, Lavellan did mind, and very much so. She wasn’t at ease with people – especially when there were so many people around. At least here in Haven people kept a respectful distance from her, but she suspected that in other places that wouldn’t be the case.

But she had no choice. At least something began to happen; the hole in the sky was still clearly seen, reminding her, that there was no way out – that thing must be closed.

The Enchanter waved to her amiably as she apologized and went away with Cassandra. He stayed on the bench with his eyes closed, smoking his pipe.

As Lavellan was passing the training grounds, she noticed the gloomy elf with lirium markings: Cullen brought him, she was told. Rian never heard from him more than two words – the elf was uncivil as an ice wall and had the tactfulness of a globe lightning. Now he was leaning against the barracks wall, staring intently somewhere behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

Much to their surprise, as Lavellan and her squad returned to Haven, they discovered that it had become… quieter. The place wasn’t stony silent, no, but it was as if people finally calmed down: no more loud shouting and finger-pointing from either templars and mages. It was a turn for the better, no doubt, but is was also suspicious as hell.

At the newly made training ground just near the lake a group of very young mages was training – they were throwing fireballs, trying to aim at training dummies. The dummies were loosing this battle, and many of them were already black and smoking. Orsino was looking after the mages; he nodded politely as the squad was passing by.

Lavellan nodded in response.

“I can’t do it,” suddenly said one mage girl, embarrassed. “Chancellor Roderic is there… he is looking right at me!”

“Is he? I see,” said Orsino. He looked the Chancellor up and down appraisingly and added thoughtfully. “It’s pity he is standing so far though. It’s rather hard to hit the target at such a long range…”

The girl giggled, as did the other children on the training ground. Orsino smiled to the girl encouragingly and pointed at the dummy.

The next fireball scored the bull’s eye.

“Pity it wasn’t the Chancellor,” noted Varric, pulling an upset face.

“You are rather bloodthirsty, aren’t you?” said Lavellan, laughing. “By the way, is it just me or it is much calmer there now than when we departed?”

“No, it’s not you. It’s the Enchanter over there,” snorted Varric. “You advisors should be really happy. What can I say, Orsino is an experienced chief of a loony bin people use to call the Circle. He must have missed his work very much while he was away”.

Lavellan just smiled.

Soon they realized that the atmosphere here in Haven changed for real – and for the better. Both mages and templars abandoned their habit of annoying Cassandra and switched to harassing Orsino, who was rather skilled in defense and defused the tension with practiced ease. Lavellan had been witness to many interesting conversations by now.

“We know those mages are guilty of crimes!” talked heatedly one of the templars; Rian had definitely seen him before. And heard too.

“So?” Orsino looked at him questioningly.

“Why no one is doing anything about it?”

“And what exactly do you propose to do?” asked Orsino, sounding calm, polite and interested.

“Arrest them!” cried the templar.

“I see. And what next?”

“Next?” asked the templar, confused.

“What do you propose to do after you arrest them?” patiently elaborated the Enchanter. “What next? Are you going to search around for a court where they could be put on trial? As I see none there. Or maybe the Maker came to you in your sleep and granted you the right to pass judgement all by yourself? Or you are going to put them in prison, where they will sit idly and eat away our supplies?”

Those dry, calm questions made the templar cringe and cower from embarrassment, as he obviously had no answers. So he just muttered something incoherent.

“Well, when you are ready to answer these questions, feel free to come to me again,” said Orsino to him. “Please, do use your brains next time. If you can’t, just leave these questions to people who don’t suffer any kind of cerebral deficiency. And please, go to your post now – the firewood wouldn’t split itself”.

With this the templar was left to bite the dust and contemplate his bad behavior. Orsino watched him go. The Enchanter had a very curious face expression – he clearly wondered how such idiots manage to exist in this world.

“First Enchanter,” Lavellan greeted him.

“Hello, Rian,” smiled Orsino. “You know, there is no need to be so official.”

“I know. But it really suits you.”

“Well,” grinned he helplessly. “As you say. May I call you Rian at least? Josephine just told me your first name.”

Lavellan waved her hand. “Of course you may! I was starting to fear that with all this Herald business I’d soon forget my own name. By the way, I’ve been searching for you – Leliana got some news she wants to tell us all.”

They began to walk towards the Chantry.

Lavellan was studying the mage through the corner of her eye. He wasn’t a tall one - average height for an elf – but seemed taller because of his leanness: his shoulders were narrow, his physique nearly anaemic. His hands were of exquisite beauty though; now, when he was without his usual gloves, Lavellan was free to admire long, thin, delicate fingers with beautifully defined nails. You had to be a sculptor and an idealist to carve a hand like this… His face wasn’t exactly handsome, but it was interesting: his delicate features had the impress of intelligence and mischief, like the elves on the ancient murals. His graying mane, flamingly red once and now copper red, was plaited in a disheveled braid: a blend of few coquelicot strands with some burnt umber ones in a mass of silvery grey looked magnificent, even though it was a trademark of his age.

Come to think of it, Orsino and recently joined Vivien had many things in common. They both cut an impressive figure, though Lavellan liked the elven mage better. His manners weren’t the result of only his upbringing, but also his attitude. He treated his charges with gentle care, all his actions speaking of sincere warmth and affection; you didn’t feel like turning your tail and run, like Lavellan often did when talking to Vivien. No wonder mages here preferred to come to Orsino with their problems.

On their way they encountered Fenris. This guy remained a mystery to Lavellan: he wasn’t very elven, though he wasn’t human too. He had strange lyrium markings, was always brooding and if talked at all, did it only to grumble about something – that was all she knew about him by now. Not much, considering she learned all that the same day they first met. The elf was like a ghost – only Varric was his friend (the dwarf tried to introduce Fenris to Solas – it was hilarious, considering their nicknames, but unsuccessful). Fenris talked only to Varric and Cullen; the former even managed to joke with him somehow.

There was one more thing Lavellan now knew about him – he kept watching Orsino.

Orsino and Fenris met each other’s glance and both nodded politely.

“Fenris!” the mage addressed him warmly. “Are you going to the Chantry as well? There is some news, as I was told.”

The elf nodded again and walked silently alongside them, like a storm cloud. No wonder Varric called him Broody Elf. Grumpy also suited him well.

All people, newcomers as well as those she knew for some time, gathered in the Chantry hall. Leliana wasn’t there yet, so Rian stepped away from the crowd and looked around, watching people.

Orsino and Vivien noticed each other and started some conversation: they shared mutual dislike for the other mage, probably over a matter of authority rivalry – or maybe they just did not sit well with each other. Their views of the Chantry were completely the opposite, as far as Lavellan knew, so both mages spoke guardedly, like they were afraid of finishing any possible argument by the scuffle.

In another corner of the hall Cassandra pestered Cullen.

“You give mages too much firewood,” said she disapprovingly. It seemed that three extra bundles turned into a constant value.

“Orsino can’t tolerate cold weather,” Cullen commented calmly. “He never could, as far as I know. But as he would never mention it himself, it is far easier to just give more firewood without discussing it – and never mention it again.”

The Seeker looked at him incredulously. Cullen sighed, tiredly rubbed his forehead and answered her silent accusations in an irritated manner. “Look, Cassandra, I’m not favouring anyone. Do you know what it’s like – to not being able to tolerate the cold? I mean _for real_. Elves don’t need shoes, but have you looked at Orsino? He always wears his high boots and gloves – he did so even in Kirkwall summers! He wouldn’t survive here without a properly heated home.”

‘Well, I'll be damned,” thought Lavellan. She didn’t notice. And the mage was without his usual gloves just now…

She didn’t have a chance to finish the thought - Leliana came and announced that in Val-Royeaux some strange people were just dying to meet her, Rian Lavellan. She signed: world was going mad, and she was dragged from town to town like some rare museum specimen everyone wanted to see but loathed to touch.

…

Fenris didn’t know what to do with himself.

He felt like he was killed, then reanimated back. And now, among the living and breathing, he felt restless, uneasy and out of place.

Well. Well-well. He really should just calm down, get hold of himself and stop this perverted watching, because even the Lavellan girl started to look funny at him. But how could he? How, when it seemed like if he had lost sight of the mage for a single moment, it would all have turned into some horrible hallucination, and in reality there would have been nothing besides the smoldering ruins in Kirkwall, where he was still standing!

But something should be done, and soon. So Fenris put his brains to good use, talked to his friends and invited himself to Val-Royeaux with Lavellan and her squad. Since there was no hope for a warm welcome, the squad was happy to oblige – Fenris was a skilled warrior. The Lyrium Ghost with a giant sword was a good argument in the face of trouble.

Even if the warrior himself loathed the fanciful Orlais.

Well, here, as expected, they were criticized, disgraced, branded as the betrayers of faith (reverend mothers were indeed hypocrites: Fenris was willing to bet that even the Maker, should he come and address them, would be met with objections and severe criticism) and were put in the pillory. Though, this impression wore off after the templars appeared – the _noble_ knights pulled such a stunt that put the revered mothers into shame. How quaint: the templars were obviously more skilled in scandals then shrewish old mothers.

‘What are they, idiots?” Varric asked rhetorically. “What greater purpose could they have, if not protection of people? Or did beating up mages suddenly become a noble quest?”

Cassandra, Lavellan and Fenris just shrugged. Something was going on in the world; that something looked suspiciously like bollocks. They didn’t like it, but what could they do?

“Well, girls… and you too, Broody,” Varric corrected himself. “Let’s do the most sensible thing – I mean, let’s go shopping! It is Orlais after all. Even if we wouldn’t buy anything useful, we’ll certainly find something to laugh at!”

The “girls” laughed and agreed. Fenris touched the dwarf’s shoulder by his clawed armor-plated hand: as he got Varric’s attention, he cast a meaningful glance at the coffee house. Varric nodded – he got the meaning. It wasn’t particularly hard, since he himself had told the elf about this coffee house prior the journey here.

The trip back to the Frostback Mountains was rather cheerful (“Who needs a bed like that? You’d more likely drawn in it then get a good sleep,” wondered Lavellan), everyone was in high spirits despite the unsuccessful journey (“Who puts rubies on the hilt? On the pommel – yes, I agree, but hilt? You’d skin your own hands like that,” fumed Cassandra at illogical Orlaisians). Varric laughed good-naturedly and from time to time discreetly wrote down the most interesting phrases, while Fenris walked silently, smiling with his eyes only. He had a bag on his shoulder with something intriguing in it, wrapped in plain brown paper.

Late that night Fenris knocked at the First Enchanter’s door. Even now, when all the titles had lost their value, everyone in Haven, from Cullen, Josephine and Herald to newly arrived pilgrims, addressed the mage as the First Enchanter.

Orsino.

“His name is Orsino,” thought Fenris.

“Fenris?” came the surprised voice from the opened door. “It’s good to see you!”

The mage opened the door wider invitingly.

Fenris slipped inside, fast and neat, accompanied only by a humble fluke of a frosty wind. And closed the door.

“I’ve finally got a free night,” explained he. “Have you got the news about our trip to Val-Royeaux already?”

“I have,” nodded the Enchanter and gestured his guest to take the chair and move it closer to the hearth, radiating warmth. “The world is going mad again… Or did it ever stop? Has it ever seemed to you the thing that began in Kirkwall never really ended? Like it still grows, spreads wider and wider, until it’s ready to swallow the world…”

“But what is this thing?” asked the elf, settling on his chair.

“Who knows? I certainly don’t,” shrugged the Enchanter. He reached out to the mantlepiece for his pipe, that was smoldering on its stand. He bit the mouthpiece with apparent pleasure and expelled a cloud of fragrant smoke, then again turned his attention to his guest. “I apologize. Today was a long and hard day… again. Do you come to talk about something?”

Fenris gave an embarrassed cough. “Not particularly.”

He took the bag he still carried with him and produced from it some kind of box in a plain paper wrapping. He presented this box to the Enchanter… Orsino. “This is for you. Please take it. You may find it useful in current circumstances… And I wanted to apologize if I ever was too rude or something.”

Orsino was clearly surprised. He absentmindedly took the box that was rather bulky, but not heavy.

“Actually, I believe you, Fenris, to be the sincerest person I know,” said he, sounding a bit sheepish. “And I don’t remember anything you need to apologize for.”

“Really?” the elf brightened up and faltered. He coughed, embarrassed. “But… take it anyway. Please. More optimism doesn’t hurt.”

Orsino put aside his pipe and turned his attention to the box. After careful removal of the string and paper he found inside a cardboard box, light coloured and pretty, with a stamp of orlaisian mask on a smooth surface. The Enchanter opened the lid and gave a gasp of surprise. “Oh, Fenris! You didn’t need too.”

Rich smell of dark chocolate slowly filled the room. Inside the box there were chocolates with various fillings. The sweets weren’t even discolored from the frost, because Fenris wrapped the precious box in a wolf pelt.

Orsino traced pensively the box’s edges, nearly touching the fanciful chocolate balls on its lacelike sheets.

“Oh goodness. So, you still remember that,” he smiled warmly to his guest and added: ‘Thank you.”

Fenris smiled in response - a little crookedly, but sincere, - stood up, bowed politely and left the mage’s room. He walked, and walked, and walked till he ended up near the village walls: Fenris leaned against the wall, touching the cold wood with his forehead. The melting hoarfrost pricked his skin, and the elf shivered.

Oh yes. Totally worth it.

“Fenris?”

This voice belonged to Cullen. The elf turned around, still resting upon the wall – he wasn’t ready to give up its cold support yet. The crooked smile spread over his lips, and his facial muscles, unaccustomed to happy expressions, looked like they were going to collapse any moment.

“Everything went off well, I see,” said Cullen. He leaned against the wall near the elf. He knew Fenris well, nearly as well as Varric did, and he was aware of the purpose of visiting Val-Royeaux. He also knew why he was wandering aimlessly around Haven, always keeping an eye on the First Enchanter.

“Yeah.”

“These chocolates must have costed no less than your monthly wages!”

“Yeah.”

The elf was staring dreamily into space. The Commander smirked knowingly: he was familiar with the symptoms, even though he himself had almost forgotten what it felt like.

“So, how are you?” asked he after a moment of silence.

Fenris moved to face him. He had already pulled himself together, but his eyes were still smiling. Cullen didn’t remember the last time he’d seen the elf so happy. Never, maybe.

Cullen smiled in response. It felt good to finally see a happy friend.


	3. Chapter 3

On second thought they decided to go to Redcliffe together: Lavellan, Cassandra, Varric and Solas. Vivien couldn’t come, since she had some important dealings with her duke, so they took along Orsino as, like Varric graciously put it, an experienced chief of a loony bin… pardon, a Circle. As soon as Fenris learned about that, he declared that he was going with them too. Nobody was willing to say him no.

“Don’t you like the idea of freedom for mages?” asked Lavellan while they were trotting leisurely towards the town. This question was eating her for some time: the mage’s distaste of rebels was obvious, but not the reasons for it.

“No, I don’t. As far as I know, they believe that freedom is like a field of daisies where they can frolic, make wreaths and dance under the moonlight,” snorted the Enchanter scornfully. “These fools lived in Circles their whole lives and have no idea what freedom really is! They deprived us of our homes, social standing, right for education and honest work in a blink! With all that gone, what is left for us that is so free and desirable? Nothing! Not to mention that over the last, maddest year in Kirkwall five mages were made Tranquil and six were killed, and not without reason (however cynical this may sound) – but when the Chantry was blown up, more than eight thousand innocent people were slaughtered! What is so unclear about these facts? What made the Circles rebel and start a war? War never decides, who is right – war decides, who is left.”

Fenris, who was following the mage on his horse, snorted in agreement. His bay horse startled at the sound, and the elf tentatively patted its mane. He didn’t get along with horses very well, so the elf and his bay stallion threaded carefully around each other.

“So, you think there can be no freedom for the mages?” asked Cassandra.

“Freedom is an extensive word. The answer on your question depends on another: what does it mean to be free?” said Orsino.

Solas, who tailed the squad, chucked approvingly. The two mages weren’t exactly friends by now, more like good acquaintances. Not the ones to pour out your inmost soul, but good enough to discuss complex and tricky topics.

The gangs of nutjob mages and templars were already dealt with – the result of the Inquisition’s efforts, so the journey was nice and calm. They had a pleasant talk about local places of interest, as Solas knew a lot about almost everything and Cassandra had been in the Hinterlands before, so they arrived at Redcliffe in no time.

But there they quickly learned that the mages, who gallantly invited them to talk, had already made an alliance – and with Tevinter no less.

Fenris uttered a Tevine swear so indecent and spicy, that Varric looked at him with respect and reached into his pocket for a notebook. And demanded a translation – if impossible out loud, then at least approximate or in whisper.

“Why Tevinter? Don’t we have any other countries?” burst out Cassandra, as she reeled from initial shock and effects of Tevine curse words.

“Yes, the most unfortunate turn of events. It would have been better even if they all had chosen to submit to the Qun,” commented the Enchanter thoughtfully.

Lavellan considered the issue and contemplated: “But we can still talk to them, right?”

“Perhaps,” said Orsino and all of a sudden smiled mischievously. “But I think that yelling at them would be a better option. I’d love to, to be honest. You did invite me with you to address the mages in right fashion, didn’t you?”

The squad’s spirits rose for a bit, and they entered Redcliff ready to yell at the idiots who didn’t know what’s good to them.

…

Most mages they met on the streets looked so hag-ridden, that yelling at them seemed just cruel. Orsino obviously thought so, as he decided not to squander his yelling talents on trifles and strode purposefully towards the tavern, visible from afar.

People let them pass without questions. Though leading the way was thin and delicate Orsino, people scattered away before him – no wonder, because the Grumpy Elf was right behind him. Fenris was holding one hand on his giant sword, making it clear that if anyone even dared to try something questionable, that anyone wouldn’t survive the attempt. Cassandra wasn’t a friendly figure too, so they steadily moved to their goal without interruption.

Grand Enchanter Fiona was indeed in “Gull and Lantern” as promised.

Orsino immediately addressed to her. “Fiona, my dear flower, withered from age. It has been a while”.

Fiona forced a sour smile. “Orsino. Age bore you down too, old fox. Though death seem to shy away from you. A pity for many.”

Lavellan stepped forward. “Grand Enchanter Fiona,” said she. “We are from the Inquisition. You’ve offered us to meet you when you were in Val-Royeaux”.

“But I haven’t been there for a while,” said Fiona, looking surprised. “It is very strange”.

“A sclerosis, maybe?” suggested Varric.

The Grand Enchanter frowned. “I assure you, I remember perfectly where I’ve been and what I’ve done”.

“Really?” said Orsino, his tone theatrically surprised. “Because it doesn’t look like that”.

Fiona turned on him right away. “You, Orsino, have no right to criticize me! You have no idea what we had to suffer after the Conclave!”

“On the contrary, I have a very good idea. I told you what would happen two whole years ago!” replied the mage in a honey sweet voice; he obviously intended lo quarrel for some time and to do it properly. “And what did you say to me then? Oh, freedom! Oh, we are so worthy! Are you going to deny your own words now?”

“We’ve never intended to start a war!”

“What, you thought that everyone would rejoice and welcome you with flowers?”

“Don’t you dare to mock me, Orsino!” lashed out Fiona.

“I’ve only just started. All your yelling about freedom is not worth shucks, because the first thing you did was to sell your precious freedom to the first buyer! Now you are not just apostates, you are traitors to your own country! Nice career progress, by the way. Don’t you think so, Grand. Enchanter. Fiona?”

The last three words were said with such an irony that even Cassandra snorted.

“You ought to be ashamed! How dare you to mock your people’s sufferings?”

“Well, the very same people weren’t ashamed to mock me and my concerns two years ago. Why should I be? I’m just returning the favor.”

Fiona’s reply remained a mystery, as at this moment the Tevinter magister entered the tavern, like a bat out of hell. Fenris clutched his sword in a death grip – would it be an ordinary sword, it’d crumble into dust. That damn magister… no adversity in Thedas had happened without the magisters involved!

The Tevinter mage quickly shut them up and threw them out of the tavern.

“Well. There has been no point in coming here from the very beginning, am I right?” said Lavellan.

“Actually, yes, you are indeed right,” admitted Orsino. “After they swore their alliance to Tevinter, there was no going back. The only reason of talking to them was to swear at each other to your heart’s content.”

“I did not expect such a thing of you of all people, to be honest.”

“Sorry,” signed Orsino. He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “I’ve never thought I could be so spiteful. Unfortunately, there is no point in hitting a mage when he is down, not to mention that the whole act is distasteful; but still, it’s hard to thwart the temptation to kick an old enemy.”

“What really happened two years ago?” asked Cassandra.

“The Council of the First Enchanters. It is hold… well, was hold once in a year. Two years ego there was a large gathering: mages from all over Ferelden, Free Marches, some people from Orlaisian Circles and even Enchanters from Antiva. And, as always, they started to discuss freedom. I tried many times to explain the fools that real freedom differed very much from what they imagined, that rebellion was not an option, but they only laughed and… well, said many things that were really ugly.”

The mage frowned. It was obvious that he had a reason to take vengeance on Fiona, even though recent unexpected developments turned the revenge into a rather unhandsome business.

“What a good-tempered delight you Circle mages are,” commented Varric.

“Don't I know it,” smiled the First Enchanter, switching off from the unpleasant subject. “Most mages are quarrelsome like an old trout. Ah, it’s no use talking about it. Let’s change the subject: Rian, am I right that this boy, the magister’s son, gave you some note?”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Rian. She searched her pocket and produced a crumpled piece of paper with shaky handwriting. “Looks like we are invited to another meeting, this time at the Chantry. And they say something about danger. Shell we go?”

“Of course,” nodded Varric and patted his crossbow lovingly. “It’s a shame not to come when you are invited. Especially when it’s a trap.”

“Why did you two mages have such a falling out?” asked Rian, who was very curious about that. The two Enchanters clearly knew each other well and for a long time. And they spat like lovers who parted on extremely bad terms. Fenris, who had the same impression (which was nagging at him now), perked up his ears.

“It was nothing,” at first Orsino brushed the matter off, but then changed his mind. “It is a long story, but you have the right to know, I guess. It’s evident now that we’d have to work with each other for some time, since no magic can spell away problems this big. Well, if you agree to work with us after my story. But I have to speak in a roundabout way. So, do you know what purpose do the Circles serve?”

They walked along the city alley with beautiful tall trees. To the left the lake was whispering softly, and over their heads the leaves were rustling, making a soothing noise. Redcliff was a beautiful place – it would have been, if not for the aura of despair and oppressive waiting.

Orsino once again reached for his pipe; he filled it with tobacco and trampled it down by his two fingers, not hidden by gloves (the funny tailoring of his gloves puzzled everyone who met the First Enchanter: thumbs and forefingers were cut short, leaving the fingers uncovered). The mage smartly produced a lick of flame, like a sleight-of-hand performer, and lit his pipe, puffing a smoke cloud.

Lavellan thought that the mystery of the mage’s gloves must have been very simple: with fingers cut like that Orsino could fill and lit his smoking pipe without taking off the gloves.

“Dear Rian,” began his tale the Enchanter. “The Circles serve not only for teaching the mages and containing them far away from the normal people. Yes, the Circle gives its charges a lot of causes to whine about injustice, but what is more, it gives many opportunities to pursue science – only if you wish to, of course. That’s why we all know each other. So, if anyone encounters some curly question concerning magic, this anyone goes to the Circle. If they can’t find an answer, the First Enchanter directs this question to another Circle with different area of expertise. And so on, until the answer is found. The mages may seem prisoners to you, but we all do quite lively correspondence and often travel between the Circles.”

Orsino was speaking quietly, but in good, expressive voice – like he was giving a lecture. This and the fragrant tobacco aroma had a calming effect on the squad.

“So,” said Lavellan. “If I’m interested in something and want to study it?..”

“You go to your First Enchanter,” nodded the mage. “If your Circle has other area of expertise and you are an apt pupil, you are recommended to another Circle that specialize in the thing you are interested in. Just think about it: a whole infrastructure for storing and researching data – all gone in a blink!”

The Enchanter cringed at his own words, as if his teeth suddenly started to hurt; Solas screw up his face just like the other mage.

“And what was the area of expertise of your Circle?” asked Lavellan curiously.

Orsino puffed a smoke cloud and looked thoughtfully at the lake. “Now, dear Rian, we are approaching the most difficult question. It’ll be better if you learn the answer now and from me, then later and from other people. You see, the Kirkwall Circle of Magi for more then a hundred and twenty years has been studying blood magic.”

“What??”

Fenris stumbled and nearly fell – just like Varric. Solas was the only one who was keeping calm; he looked at the other elven mage with new interest.

“What?” cried Cassandra. “And does Cullen?..”

“Of course he knows. Just like all the other our templars of lieutenant rank and higher,” answered Orsino coolly.

“But why?” asked Lavellan.

“Blood magic is still magic,” commented Solas. “Why not study it?”

“Because it is _blood_ magic!”

Orsino rubbed his face tiredly by his palm. “That’s why we keep it a secret. Magic should be studied, no matter what kind if magic it is. After all, the lesser information we have, the less of a shot we have to protect ourselves. Do you know that possession can be cured? As well as some kinds of mental disorder? How many lives could be saved, if only we knew how to approach the issue! So, it just happened that maleficars, who used no blood but their own and possessed a weak link with their demons, were send to Kirkwall. And that’s why our Circle have always been considered the most tempestuous one.”

Lavellan froze on the spot at the sudden thought. “Wait,” said she. “Are you too a?..”

“Me?” asked Orsino, clearly surprised. “No, of course not. I’m a theorist. Well, I do know quite a lot about blood magic, enough to scary anyone, but no, I’m not the one myself.”

“Any particularly morbid spells?” asked Varric. He had reasons to be curious: Hawke and he dealt with enough maleficars to consider themselves specialists in morbid things.

“Well,” the Enchanter pondered for a moment. “I do know a spell to create a giant unassailable monster from a few corpses and a living host. A creature like that devours everything on its way. For example, if you need to seize a fortress but don’t have enough soldiers, you could create such a cadaver, bring it to the walls and just wait until it is over. Cruel, but effective.”

“That’s awful!” shivered Lavellan from disgust.

“These are the facts of war,” signed Cassandra. She knew that there were some battles where you just had to use methods like this.

Orsino drew in breath and continued his tale. “So, the actual problem is: it’s easy to talk about freedom when your Circle studies something nice and harmless like transfiguration or elemental magic. But what should I do? One third of my Circle are acquitted maleficars, I also have a few battle necromancers, three cured abominations and one dreamer; the latter sometimes can’t even wake up without help, what does he need the freedom for? Where can we go? And what is really annoying, when they need to cure First Enchanter Irving’s nephew, who became an abomination, they run to us and plead for help. But when I ask them, what should become of my Circle in the world of their dreams, they turn their noses up at me! You are maleficars, you have chosen your path… I don’t need their hypocritical reprimands!”

The squad hadn’t yet come to terms with the real scale of the Kirkwall Circle’s ingenuity, but they did understand the implication of quarrel between the Enchanters. Fenris’ frown deepened, he gritted his teeth and… put the thought out of his head. He’d already lost enough due to blood magic. Furthermore, it was Orsino they were talking about! If there was a more reasonable and sensible mage in this world, Fenris had never met him.

It was quiet near the local Chantry. It had served many times as a safe sanctuary for the people here, but now no one was in a hurry to get under its pleasantly cool and secure walls. Strange.

They opened the doors…

Ah. Not so strange after all.

A rift was pulsing inside the Chantry hall, spitting out long-shanked, spidery demons that looked like the overgrown grasshoppers. A mage in brilliant white clothes (Varric was astonished: even his characters hadn’t been bold enough to wear a colour so impractical) was knocking them down and dispelling rather neatly. But the mage was alone against a hell of the demons and was losing the battle little by little.

“Here you are!” cried the mage happily, like they were his long-lost relatives. “Come, there are enough demons just for everyone!”

They managed to close the rift, but barely – there was something strange about it. Figuratively speaking, time near this rift was like the sea waves: it either rolled at you like a sluicy sea or retreated painfully slow. But finally the work was done; the unknown mage turned to them and smiled. “Well-well, that’s bet-”

His voice died away perplexedly, as a sharp sword appeared at his throat. The one holding the sword was Fenris, who told the mage in a tranquil voice. “Move, and I’ll kill you.”

“I don’t recommend you to doubt his words and abilities,” advised Varric to the mage. “The Brooding Elf here hates mages, Tevinter and Magisters. Even more so, when there is three-in-one. You really don’t need to provoke him.”

“I’m no magister,” winced the mage, who was trying to keep calm face to face with the giant sword. “I’m just altus.”

“Future magister then,” said Fenris. “The difference isn't that great. Аb uno disce omnes*.”

“Oh,” the mage’s face fell, as he understood that the grumpy elf knew Tevinter much more personally then it seemed, and had intimate reasons for his dislike. “It’s no use to apologize, I take it? Or to say that I often feel ashamed for my countrymen?”

Fenris felt someone’s presence behind him. He turned his head a little and met with calm greed eyes.

“You can try and apologize, it wouldn’t hurt,” said Orsino to the mage and addressed his next words to the Grumpy Elf. “Fenris, please put down your sword. If it’s a trap, you can always kill him later. There is no need to act so uncivil now.”

Lavellan snorted. That’s Orsino for you: only he could call the sword at someone’s throat _uncivil_ behavior.

The elf lowed his sword begrudgingly and stared meaningfully at the Tevinter mage, clearly suggesting that if the mage had even moved funnily, Fenris would have made him regret it.

The altus gave them a nervous smile and finally introduced himself. He turned out to be Dorian, indeed from Tevinter and really not a magister yet. He also explained how he got there and why, and who is magister Alexius, and what this magister had done to be there now. The latter was rather challenging to understand apart from the fact that it was very, very bad.

Challenging for everyone but the mages, of course.

“Time magic! Who would have thought,” said Orsino wistfully. “The Amaranthine Circle once performed an interesting experience with a black hole: they were checking the theory of light compression and found out that inside a black hole the light comes to focus in a single point indefinitely. It means if only we could find a way to unfold the black hole, we could get the light that was present even at the times of the ancient Imperium!”

“Unfortunately, black holes have no reverse,” retorted Solas. “Even if you get inside, the reverse signal would go back for ages! This asynchronous behavior makes black holes hard to study.”

‘Have you two gone out of your minds?” cried Cassandra. “We have the Breach in the sky, a magister in Redcliff – and you are discussing holes!”

At the same time Dorian looked at the mages with interest with a good punch of respect. “An interesting company you keep, my lady,” said he to Lavellan. “I was worried that you have only soldiers in your Inquisition.”

“We do have soldiers. Quite enough of them, I assure you,” said Fenris suggestively, and the mage shuddered.

Oh. That could be interesting. Picking on the Tevinter mage might prove amusing in case the mage decided to stay for a while (Fenris flinched at sudden sneaky feeling).

“So, this Alexius locked himself in the tower,” drawled Lavellan and turned to Cassandra. “What do you think? Should we pay him a visit?”

“Of course,” nodded the Seeker.

“The idea is the same, Shiny,” smirked Varric. “It’s no good to keep the trap waiting – the surprise could get spoiled.”

The mages and Grumpy Elf nodded. Dorian smiled. “Thank you,” said he. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *from one, learn all (Latin phrase, but let’s pretend it is Tevine)


	4. Chapter 4

No _thank you_ was enough for all this shit.

If only Fenris had known what was going to happen, he’d never have gone to the damn tower at all! And he’d never let Orsino even come near it!

Damn this mages! Damn the magisters! Damn, damn! Venhedis!!

Fenris hated magic for a very solid reason – it made the reality… vague. Insecure. The elf – as well as any other man – just wanted to know that the sky was blue, the grass was green and today was Tuesday. Was it too much to ask? But no, the damn magisters start with blowing, destroying and changing everything they can, and after that grow scared of what they’ve done and begin making bloody sacrifices…

“Oh my, a time magic indeed,” noted Orsino calmly, looking around himself. “Looks like we’ve guessed it right: it is indeed based on the same principle as the black hole. But the method seems to be very unstable: the exit point is obviously selected at random. I think with a certain upgrade the magister’s amulet will be capable of returning us exactly to the moment we’ve left.”

…and Fenris finally felt solid ground under his feet.

“Alexius must be carrying the amulet with him all the time,” said Dorian. The altus was still very pale, but it seemed like the reasonable words of another mage made him snap out from a panicking state. “He’d never lose sight of an artifact this valuable, and he could have guessed that we were transported to the future.”

“So, we are going to find this magister and take away his amulet,” resolved Lavellan. She found it difficult to collect herself: starting from the Conclave it looked like everything was a particularly bad dream. Maybe Solas was watching her dream now in the Fade and laughing himself silly.

Orsino gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, Rian, we’ll manage to come back. Try to look at this situation like a rather… unusual scouting operation. We do need to discover our enemy’s plans.”

“Who could be planning to turn the world into… this?” asked she, waving her hand around to indicate the hideous ruins surrounding them.

“That’s a very interesting question indeed,” nodded the mage as he stepped into the corridor to look about. He was immediately pushed back by Fenris, who routinely switched into his protective mode and stepped forward to lead the way. The mage smiled subtly and continued his thought. “Generally, people crave for simple things: power, money… But now, as you see, we are dealing with something else entirely. Whoever this _Elder One_ is, he doesn’t seem to be an elf, human or dwarf. No normal mortal creature could treat its own world with such blatant disregard. So, we can safely assume that the Elder One is not interested in this world and wants…?”

Orsino made a telling pause. Fenris chuckled: looked like nothing could made a practiced lecturer to lose his academic habits.

‘He wants the Fade,” speculated Lavellan.

“Most likely,” nodded the Enchanter. “Though I have no idea how this creature imagines the Fade without the reality. He either knows more about the world’s essence then we do or… well, or he is an outstanding idiot obsessed by the idea of the Fade’s primevalness and other nonsense.”

Everyone snorted. Even Dorian.

They did manage to get the amulet: on their way the squad met with what had become of Solas, Varric, Cassandra (Fenris really, _really_ wanted to unsee that) and Fiona. The Kirkwall Enchanter gave his ideological opponent a long look and promised in a grave voice: “That will never happen. I swear”. The Grumpy Elf made a mental note of a contemplative look Orsino gave to red lyrium. A sudden thought came to his mind: had Orsino known about the lyrium idol?

Fenris decided to ask about it later.

Dorian and Orsino managed to adjust the amulet and open the portal to their time… and the squad jumped out precisely at the talking magister, knocking him from his feet. Fenris seized the occasion and skillfully tied the magister up (well, he did have the skill and experience), kicking him out of pure spite. The temptation was too strong.

The magister admitted defeat. Now it was time to deal with the mages.

Lavellan looked at the Grand Enchanter and frowned. Rian already apprehended that mages were different – and those who stood before her didn’t seem very trustworthy. But the Breach was a priority now, and they needed mages to close it. So Lavellan with a heavy heart offered the former rebels and traitors to the country to join the Inquisition.

“On one condition: all mages report to First Enchanter Orsino,” added Lavellan, throwing a quick glance at the elven mage. He shrugged and cringed, clearly not happy with the prospect, but as he caught her glance, Orsino signed and nodded resignedly.

“You want to give us to him?” asked the former Great Enchanter ruefully. “Is this some kind of sick joke? Don’t you know anything about the Kirkwall Circle?”

“I do know. And that’s why I’m making such a condition,” retorted the elf angrily. “I hope that the Enchanter who was able to control a whole Circle of maleficars will manage to keep you in check. But if you dare to address him disrespectfully…”

“Then you’ll be offered a lesson in respect. Compulsorily lessons, in fact,” added Fenris. He casually traced the sharp edge of his sword with his finger.

The former _free_ mages signed and submitted. They didn’t have a choice and they knew it.

However, Lavellan felt only anger while watching their humble submission. She really got why Orsino was so angry. If you thought about it, those _wronged, oppressed_ mages hadn’t even lift a finger to do a right thing. They knew nothing of responsibilities that cane with freedom. The Breach didn’t seem much of a problem to them. No matter, thought Lavellan as she looked at Orsino and noticed the quizzical sparks in his otherwise tired eyes: this mage was certainly able to knock some sense into their heads.

“I’m sorry,” apologized she later. “We did put a lot of work on your shoulders. But we had to decide quickly, and this was the only idea I had.”

“Don’t worry about it. It probably was the right decision anyway,” signed Orsino. “And the time was the key – if you haven’t stepped forward with your suggestion, the mages would scatter like beads on the floor. How were we going to fish them out from the Higherland plains afterwards? So yes, I’m not happy with the predicament – but I’ll manage. I do have some experience after all.”

“Thank you,” said Lavellan cordially.

Of course, later in Haven there were a lot of screaming and arguing. Everyone wanted to put in their two cents worth. The Inquisition Advisers and other people who didn’t belong to Orders and Fractions suddenly felt a great deal of love towards the Kirkwall Circle: these mages were a lot quieter and well-behaved then the new ones.

Solas and Orsino locked themselves in the First Enchanter’s room, where they were calculating and drawing something for two whole days. They had spent a package of paper, if not more, and came to an inevitable conclusion: while there was indeed a chance to close the Breach now, but it wasn’t very great. With templars the odds were much better.

Lavellan signed defeatedly and stepped to the Advisors: they needed to discuss how to approach the templars who holed up in some castle after leaving Val-Royeaux. Logical people indeed…

Fenris decided he had enough entertainment already and declined the offer to go with the main squad; moreover, Orsino decided the same. The First Enchanter had enough work as it was.

“We don’t have a place to train!” screamed one templar who was harassing Cassandra. The Seeker silently pointed at the newly established training grounds where young mages were practicing fireball spell.

“But it is engaged!” lamented the templar.

Cassandra closed her eyes, counted up to ten and howled: “First Enchanter Orsino!”

“What’s the matter, my lady?” asked the Enchanter politely, as he came closer. He looked exhausted - like death warmed up.

Cassandra shoved the annoying templar to the mage and made a shamefully quick escape. She had dealt with something like forty issues today and had no moral strength left.

“How so you don’t have a place?” asked the Enchanter surprisingly. “Well, if you think this training ground is not big enough for both of you… why don’t you build your own then?”

He grasped the templar’s shoulder and called: “Messere Fenris! May I have a word?”

Fenris, who looked no better than the mage, rose up from the stump where he was resting and polishing his sword, scaring everyone around with his sour look. He was usually helping out the templars now: most of them were nice lads from Kirkwall, who he’d known from before, plus a few brawlers who made everything three times more difficult.

“Fenris, please see that the young people here build their own training ground. And give them the reasons to be enthusiastic about the task, if you’d be so kind.”

The Grumpy Elf’s eyes lit up malevolently. Today he was feeling particularly kind – kind enough to scoff at someone. Some templars would do, considering this one surely had comrades. So Fenris nodded and grasped the offering firmly by the other shoulder. It was time to confess whose idea it was to harass people instead of sharing the training grounds.

Maybe he should put these weaklings to timber logging? They might even develop some muscle.

Later, after Lavellan and her squad had left for Therinfal redoubt, all mages who were moaning and whining too much had suddenly became mute. Healer Adan was only making helpless gestures, not moved by the pleading eyes. Mute mages were much easier to deal with.

Only a few people noticed how Commander Cullen masked his smile.

Orsino was a talented enchanter and, what was more, he was a skilled alchemist. But his second line of occupation wasn’t a well-known one: Orsino was a reserved person and used his alchemy skills in very peculiar situations. All Kirkwall templars knew that if you had steped on First Enchanter’s toes, you might discover some weird addition in your tea, dinner or lyrium. And discover it too late. No one could prove that a love life failure, suddenly pimpled butt, strained voice or upset stomach had something to do with displeased First Enchanter, but, well… Though there was no real proof, everyone knew that you should never upset Orsino. So, the templars in Kirkwall were always a bit apprehensive of offending mages. Mages too tried to be polite and careful… just in case.

However, no one ever saw Orsino making any chemical compounds during all his years in Kirkwall. Even Meredith never managed to catch him, though she did try (or, as Cullen suspected, seemed to try). All this was just a rumor until Knight Commander madness and the battle, when part of the Gallows’ wall collapsed. There they discovered afterwards a well-hidden room in Orsino’s chambers, full of retorts, distillation stills and flasks with unknown ingredients inside. Who knows how the mage managed to get all of this past the watchful eyes of the templars. Cullen than only laughed bitterly: now he finally had his proof, but no actual person. What an irony…

Well, now, it seemed, Orsino finally managed to get his hands on some chemical ingredients. And his old skills came useful. Now all they could do was wait until the penny dropped.

By the way…

As Cullen learned the story about the possible horrid future, he exchanged looks with Fenris. The elf also looked worried; the Commander nodded him, and they both smoothly departed to the small house where Orsino stayed.

Inside the corridor Fenris caught the familiar smell, and a smile lit his eyes. The Enchanter’s chambers were full of reach chocolate smell, and the disgruntled bawls could be heard through the partially closed doors along with calm and quiet voice. All was as it should have been: even Cullen smiled nostalgically.

They entered the room. Knight Lisetta and her partner were there – apparently, the bawling was their doing. As Orsino noticed his new guests, he gave the knights a sharp look. “Have you two calmed down?”

The two visitors nodded gloomily.

“Very well. You may go now,” the Enchanter dismissed them. “Next time please try to ask and understand the issue, don’t be so quick to take arms.”

The templars left and took away their dejected looks. Orsino welcomed his old acquaintances with genuine warmth and pointed at the chairs. “Please, sit down. Cullen, Fenris.”

He got them tea without asking, strong and aromatic, and put at the table a polished wooden bowl with chocolates. The mage took his own cup and sat close to the hearth.

Cullen sipped his tea with a great relish. “How long do you think would this contagium of muteness last?” asked he casually.

“Till the day after tomorrow, I guess,” said the Enchanter, hiding his smile behind the cup. “But there might be a relapse. Not to such a big scale, I hope – tannin is hard to come by these days.”

It was strange how easy it seemed to switch back to normal. Like everything was fine, just like in the old days. As if Hawke would come through these doors any minute and ask if they were going to play cards at Sunday. Or Meredith would stride in and ask if they were plotting a subversion here.

“Have you noticed the red lyrium there?” asked Fenris, ruining the moment of warm silence.

The Enchanter signed and nodded. “It was hard not to. This is going to be bad. And before you ask, yes, I knew Meredith had bought a strange red idol and wanted to make a sword out of it. She showed it to me herself.”

“So you knew it was...?” drew forward Cullen together with Fenris.

“No! That’s the problem. If I had known what I know now… But it was just lyrium! We all work with lyriym every day, we long stopped being afraid of it. Yes, the colour of that particular piece was off, plus odd mesmerizing effect. Lyrium is not our specialty, so I recommended Meredith to send the idol to Lydes Circle. They studied it and found nothing unusual, so Knight Commander gave it for remelting. How could we know…”

Orsino slumped at his chair and put his tea aside. He suddenly looked ten years older, face awry with pain.

Fenris desperately wanted to move closer, to support the mage in some way, but…

He didn’t dare.

Cullen put his hand on the Enchanter’s shoulder. “No one could have known,” said he.

“I do understand that. But it doesn’t make it easier – or right. Unfortunately, the world is determined to run into the same trap. Have you ever questioned yourself: was this idol in Kirkwall a coincidence or something else?”

“I have,” came the reply from the doors. Here stood Varric, who most likely had noticed the looks exchange between the elf and Commander and decided to join. “And very often too. Look, Magi, how did Lydes mages not find a thing? I have several men studying a tiny piece of this shit by turns, and even so they regularly go bonkers.”

Orsino showed the new guest another chair and got him tea.

“I don’t know,” said he as he sat down and took his long cold pipe. He didn’t light it, just bit the mouthpiece thoughtfully. “I had this idol in my hands, and I swear it was just lyrium. The normal, familiar lyrium in wrong colour. Might its features be triggered by the remelting process?”

Varric sipped his tea (and rose his eyebrows in surprise, as the tea was indeed very tasty – oh yes, Fenris remembered: Varric had never been to the Enchanter’s for tea in Kirkwall). He signed. “Bartrand went nuts as soon as he saw the damn thing. Or maybe even earlier, just as we approached the thaig. Could these features be so... variable?”

“No idea,” said the Enchanter and rubbed his face huffily. “There is no logic in here! Was your brother searching for that particular thaig because of the idol? When did it start calling him? When did it start to call Meredith? And this red lyrium again now – is it a coincidence? Where does the coincidence end and some evil plan start?”

They lamented a bit about these questions and ate some chocolate to chase away the taste of sorrow. Well, thought Fenris as he tried the candy: the Orlaisians did know a thing about chocolate. It was good – better that the one Orsino had in Kirkwall. The elf couldn’t help but feel a bit proud.

Soon Lavellan and the squad were back from Therinfal.

They brought with them a few grudges from Orlaisians (looked like some count was, well, dispatched of, and other Orlaisians made a convincing show of offence), a rather thinned army of templars, a strange demon and news about red lyrium. The same day a new pack of paper was delivered to Solas’ hut: the mages again started to plan and calculate the ritual of closing the Breach. It took days of hard work, calculations and rehearsals: Orsino and Solas spared no one, even themselves, but in a week they were all ready for the real thing. Mages and templars squinted at each other funnily, but they managed to perform outstandingly.

The Breach was sealed. Or just closed, as Fenris suspected. But even if it wasn’t locked shut, now it felt much better than before. Safer, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts? Comments? Mistakes found (I know there are plenty)?


	5. Chapter 5

Still, where did the coincidence end and some evil plan start?

They didn’t get the answer, but they did get the chance to face the author of said evil plan. Fenris long suspected that the actual face wouldn’t be very likable, and he was right. Damned Corypheus – how did this thing manage to survive? The elf was absolutely sure it was dead – hell, he himself poked it with a sword for a few times to be sure!

And it didn’t just survive – it turned out to be a Tevinter magister! _The_ Tevinter Magister. And it put on airs of such importance that Fenris was immediately reminded of Danarius.

Had he already mentioned that no adversity in Thedas happened without the magisters involved?

They couldn’t fend off the attack (no one could with being so outnumbered), but they did manage to bury the assaulting army along with Haven and run away in time. Not the worst outcome.

Corypheus (Fenris couldn’t even think about the creature without starting to swear, and he was running out of dirty words, in spite of the fact that he knew a wide range of Tevine, Orzammar, Rivain curses along with some pirate slang and a few Qunari foul terms) brought with him an army of hideous lyrium monsters. The sight alone was enough to send normal people flying in panic. And the army was HUGE. The ancient magister clearly came prepared, but he could not foresee one thing.

The Kirkwall Circle of Magi.

A full Circle of skilled maleficars trained for battle.

The mages deftly split into teams together with templars, following Orsino’s guidance, who was smoking his pipe calmly - as nervous as a brick wall. A few knights brought mages the _material_ they asked for – it helped that there was a lot of potential sacrifices around, ugly, struggling and spitting with red lyrium. Without any emotional turmoil the mages cut their palms to draw blood and started to sing lugubriously.

The cadavers they created (Fenris could describe these things only as _utter dagnabbit_ ) scared away not only normal people, but also those whose minds had been long burned by red lyrium. Corypheus and his ridiculous monsters didn’t stand a chance: the cadavers just ate away the path through his army and exploded spectacularly in the mountains. The following landslide buried Haven along with the army and the whole valley, giving the Inquisition time to pack and run. It was a pity Corypheus cheated and flew away on a dragon – as all other magisters, he didn’t play fair.

Now they settled in Skyhold – a nice stronghold Solas had shown. The place was marvelous and well-protected – unlike Haven, the sight of its defenses only could make any experienced warrior cry in pity. Though, it was hard to get supplies here, but as the Inquisition’s reputation was growing, the more merchants were willing to come with their wares. Their company was growing too: more pilgrims came, and many decided to stay in the stronghold. There were some notable persons: Qunari mercenary (Fenris at first had an unpleasant reminding of one Arishok, but it passed quickly – the Bull was all right; and he indeed was a worthy sparring partner), madcap girl with indiscriminate speech, lone Gray Warden and, of course, strange demon. It was irritating as hell, but Orsino liked to talk to it, so Fenris accepted its existence. He did grin and bear the whole Circle of maleficars after all, so retreating because of a single demon would be stupid.

What kind of retreat, you ask? Oh, well. No one mentioned it before, right? So, you want to know what was going on with Fenris. Why was he following another person with his eyes, afraid to lose sight of him? Why give him chocolates? And why at the same time he was so scared of uttering a single word to him or just come closer?

Well. Everyone knows what these signs mean, right?

“Erm… Look, Varric, is it just me or is Fenris in love with Orsino?” asked Lavellan once.

The dwarf chuckled. “Of course he is! Pretty obvious, isn’t it? Even the birds of our spy master have guessed it already – though they could be extremely intelligent birds, who knows… Well, the elf’s secret is obvious for everyone but one person. Want a guess?”

“Orsino?” speculated Lavellan.

“Bingo!” the dwarf eloquently threw his hands in the air, then gave a tired sign. “Well, it’s no longer funny. How could anyone be so blind?”

The thing was, not only Orsino was a blind one. How did Fenris even manage to fall in love, and with a mage no less? And what mage! The elf often tried to remember his old days in Kirkwall in attempt to understand how it all came to this.

He met First Enchanter the day Qunari attacked, though ravaging horned savages around didn’t make a nice scenery. But he had also seen the mage before: Orsino, accompanied by a templar or two (Sir Cullen usually), was often seen in both Low and High Town. First Enchanter’s title came with more freedom, and Orsino made use of it on every opportunity.

Delicate mage’s frame with a shadow of bulky armored templar was irritating as hell, enough for Fenris to grate his teeth at the sight. It became even more annoying after Fenris learned that the people here really liked and respected the mage.

A shopkeeper was the first to tell him that. Fenris usually bought vegetables from him: as he gradually became more used to peaceful life, the elf discovered many things about himself – he liked simple food, for example. Simple, but tasty – like tomatoes with a pinch of salt and some freshly baked bread. The whole thought of liking one food more then another never occurred to him as a slave.

“Oh, First Enchanter!” brightened up the shopkeeper and waved his hand in greeting: the mage saw him and nodded with polite smile. “A decent sort he is. Our Circle is lucky. Don’t they know it! I have a daughter there,” confided he in Fenris. “We asked for nothing – and got this magic stuff. What do we need it for? Pity you can’t give this generous gift back to the Maker. At least we fared well enough – I can see the man who is responsible for my daughter. Never refuses to pass a letter or some sweets, this one. And looks after my girl – she is bonny lass, she is, and I don’t need some armored wanker to dally with her!”

Fenris uttered something resembling a _Yeah_ , took his package and hurried away. He really didn’t need to hear praises to some mage.

It was the first occurrence, but not the last. Mages were a favorite gossip subject here in Kirkwall. Fenris was furious (well, he wasn’t used to people talking _to_ him, and just to chat no less), but despite himself his eyes started to linger on First Enchanter’s frame every time he saw him in town. And deep in his bones (very, _very_ deep) he began to think that this sly fox was a jolly one.

The exact phrase wasn’t his.

“A jolly fellow, yeah?” the blacksmith gave Fenris a wink as he was fixing the elf’s sword with a new hilt; First Enchanter was passing by, and the blacksmith followed him with his eyes. “ _Sly fox_ they call him. The Circle girls fancy him rotten. They say even Meredith does, but the man is off the limits. Looking allowed only, no touching!”

“Don’t templars have anyone worthy to talk about? Or has the trend of fancying templars ended?” grumbled Fenris. He was dealing better now with this chatting thing – he even began to participate in conversations, putting in a word or two, and the other party didn’t always run away screaming after that.

“Who knows? It’s not like their armor is transparent,” shrugged the blacksmith. “I’ve forged too many of these shells to believe in perfect muscles underneath. With mages you can at least see what you are getting… But armor can make even a fat caterpillar look like templar. Have you ever seen Sir Carras without his armor? Lucky you! I have – he came to me for some armor repairs, it was all so dented he couldn’t even get out of it. We’ve tried to pluck him out for an hour! And as for his stature… well, no girl in her sane mind would ever lap it up. Let me tell you one story,” the blacksmith put aside the hilt, indicating that the story would take some time: Fenris needed his sword done and had no idea how to make the man repair it without the storytelling bit, so he listened helplessly. “Once Sir Carras did made a pass on some pretty mage lass – cornered her, that’s what he did. No real stuff though – Sir Cullen found him before the scoundrel managed to get his hands on her. A decent fellow, that Cullen is. But the lass was scared shitless, you see. Afterwards, right after supper, the Carras fellow felt funny – and he was heaving up and having the trots for days! He can’t even think of pretty lasses now, let alone touch. They say First Enchanter put something quaint in his meal. But no one could prove it! Jolly Sly Fox he is, I told you,” ended his story the blacksmith and whistled raptly. He then remembered the sword and turned to work on it.

Fenris stared after the long-gone Enchanter thoughtfully. Yes, he didn’t like the mages, but he could appreciate a well-executed revenge on the abuser. The slaves often did the same, adding some herbs to magister’s meals. There were secrets passed from generation to generation: which herbs made him fast asleep, which helped to calm a violent mood… The elf felt bad about the reminder and the similarities there, and he dismissed the thought.

There were other people and other talks. “I’d like to make my tomboy attend First Enchanter’s lecture course,” complained one of Varric’s business partners. “They say his lectures on demonology are the best in Free Marches!” “We definitely need to invite Knight Commander and First Enchanter,” said some duchess whose name Fenris didn’t care to remember. “They are so delightful when they hiss at each other.” “I’ve had a templar the other day,” said one lady from the _Rose_ to another, her laughter bubbling over. “He took off his pants, and he… he was all blue! Like he plunged himself in a paint! And polka-dotted with yellow - so cute! I couldn’t help myself – I thought I’d laugh my ass off!”

Gradually and unnoticeably Fenris formed his view of First Enchanter: a mage who was respected and loved by his pupils, who was always ready to defend them… and who really, really liked mischief, for which he had a knack. All these features appealed to Fenris in spite of his continuing hate towards the mages.

Only much later – somewhere around now - the elf realized the true extent of what the Enchanter was doing for his Circle. He balanced between fear and respect, acceptance and disdain; the templars held him in regard as high as their own Knight Commander, and he held mages in hand even firmly then Iron Lady Meredith herself. When the Circle lost its leader in the explosion, the core mages of the group – about sixty well-trained, experienced sorcerers - did not rebel: after the Circles’ dismissal they calmly gathered their things, like real soldiers did, and left the city. They camped near the Sundermount along with templars and all young pupils. To the enquires of the City Guards they politely replied that they wanted no trouble, that’s why they’d better stay here, altogether. Most of these mages and templars joined the newly established Inquisition – and offering them to join was the smartest idea ever. Even Leliana agreed on that. These mages mastered their gift; they could beat cold any demon the Breach had coughed. They didn’t complain about harsh conditions, bad weather and lack of fresh bread. They didn’t grumble at injustice and question the orders. They did what they were asked - promptly and efficiently.

Fenris did learn yet another reason for the Kirkwall mages’ loyalty. You bet your ass they were loyal – they were blood mages for Maker’s sake! Blood mages who repented and didn’t wish to kill people – all other people, mages included, thought them monsters and treated like dirt, while in Kirkwall Circle they got home, trust and respect.

But that was not the point now.

By the way, the first to get acquainted with First Enchanter was Aveline. She was Guard Captain, it was her job to know everyone in the city, even if she hadn’t met them personally. And one day Orsino submitted her a request.

“Anders, I want to ask you something,” said Aveline to the apostate as they were sitting at the _Hanged Man_ as usual. “Can you read a letter and say if some dangerous magic is mentioned in it or not?”

“Why? Are guards planning a round-up of mages now?” the mage bristled up instantly.

“Come on, Anders, no one is planning anything here,” said Hawke as he placed a calming hand on the mage’s shoulder. “Aveline, please start with the beginning, not the middle. What letter, what magic?”

Guard Capitan sipped her bear moodily (the beer that was served here did provoke such facial expression) and said in a subdued voice: “I’ve had a visit today from First Enchanter. He’s received a letter from some old acquaintance of his: an appeal to clarify something about potions or other equally high browed thing. First Enchanter said that the question itself was harmless, but there was something odd about the letter. He can’t say what exactly alarmed him, so he wants us to check on his acquaintance. Quietly and discreetly if possible.”

“Since when do you know the meaning of a word _discreet_?” laughed Varric as he joined their company at the table. “And here I thought guards can’t be discreet by their work description.”

Aveline pinned the dwarf to the table by her eyes only. Varric moved away a bit, put his hands up in defeat and made his best conscience-smitten face.

“Everything concerning the mages in this city is done giving a lick and a promise,” Aveline snorted in distaste. “Even I try not to touch this hive! And First Enchanter came to me most likely because of the company I keep – I mean my own acquaintances with… unconventional approach.”

“I’m at your service, my Lady, together with everything unconventional I have,” said Hawke and bowed playfully.

“Oh, you jester,” frowned Aveline pointedly. The corner of her mouth rose up in a small smile.

“All right, give me this letter,” agreed Anders peevishly.

When Fenris joined them, the healer was re-reading the letter third time and Hawke was discussing the issue with Aveline.

“Are you sure the templars wouldn’t be aggrieved at us over this?” asked he.

‘Yes, because they are touchy fellows,” added Varric.

Fenris waved his hand and was immediately handed a beer mug (he possessed a more sinister presence then the usual local thugs, so he was always served promptly and with humble requests for payment – Isabella liked to get a discount with his help). Varric whispered in his ear the nature of the issue, and the elf winced: he didn’t want any more problems with the mages.

“No, they wouldn’t,” Aveline shook her head. “Knight Commander knows about this letter, I even have her consent.”

Fenris snorted and sipped his beer. He’d been living here for three years and still couldn’t grasp the true relations between mages and templars. Some were shouting about oppression and injustice, like Anders here; others were clearly surprised by the former and said they live in love, peace and harmony. Hawke’s sister had never complained about the Circle, and Fenris thought her trustworthy – more so then Anders.

“I’m not sure,” the apostate shook his head. He was wrapped up in the letter. “It does look harmless enough… The issue is more about the alchemy. Ichor is, if I remember it correctly, pus or sanies – a liquid driven from ulcus. It could be purified and processed into… How the hell it was called? Eternal blood?”

Hawke snapped his fingers under the mage’s nose. “Hey, Anders? Who are you talking to?”

The healer blinked quizzically and knitted his eyebrows in expression of hurt. “Hawke! If you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to make some sense out of this thing! And the issue is really difficult, not to mention that I’m a healer, not a scientist.”

“That’s why this mysterious acquaintance writes to First Enchanter and not to you,” remarked Varric. “Come on, Blondy, you are the brainy one here. Is this… however you call it… _thing_ dangerous?”

“Ichor,” answered Anders absent-mindedly. “I think they also called it the blood of the gods. It’s like an elixir of life. There are plenty of ways to use it – your only limit is your imagination.”

“We’d better go and check this mage out then,” decided Hawke, and Aveline nodded in agreement.


	6. Chapter 6

From the perspective of Guard Capitan, visit to a suspicious mage (who was finally found by one of Varric’s contacts over a week of complaining and demanding a pay rise) required one guard – namely herself – with one or two friends.

So they, of course, decided to go all together.

That did come in very handy at the end, because when they opened a passage in the old foundry, they discovered here stuff so abominable and in such quantity that a party of three would have surely perished here. It was a mixed blessing, since now it was clear that whatever this _ichor_ was, it was used for something sinister.

Well, _sinister_ didn’t really grasp it. The mage was not what they’d expected, and let’s not forget these were expectations of people who lived in Kirkwall for years and were used to brace themselves for the worst.

No one tried to capture the crazed maleficar alive – in fact, it took all their skills to just run the bloody bastard into the ground.

“Well, shit,” swore Hawke as he was holding poor Merril: the elf was having a violent wave of nausea. Local cabinet of curiosities was too much for the timid girl, and not only for her – even Fenris went a bit pale. Bloody orgies in Tevinter were much less… faddish: the elf had never thought that he could ever upbraid magisters for lack of imagination.

Inventive maleficar decorated his quarters with pieces of human bodies in various conditions. A pair of swollen, partially rotten palms was soaking in some vile looking solution; something that looked like a woman hip was hanging from the hook, glowing with enchantments and dripping blood. Fingers, knees, heads and intensities were everywhere; as if it wasn’t enough, some pieces were sewn together. Garret accidentally noticed a severed head with no eyes, but with a piece of shoulder attached to it, and had a strong feeling that one more minute – and he would join Merril in puke competition.

“Look, this one is alive!” came a shout.

The one shouting was Anders. Either people with bodymates were less susceptible or the mage had seen things worse in his healing practice, but he was the only one who managed to look around the grim place. And he found a survivor.

Others quickly gathered around. They saw a woman about fifty, pale and somewhat twenty years ago very beautiful. Her hand was badly cut, so you could see bone and muscle, but otherwise she was fine. Whole, at least. She was unconscious, but that was indeed a blessing – there were too many people around who weren’t lucky enough to ever wake up.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Hawke and took the woman up; she was heavy, but heavy was solid, simple and understandable thing, so he finally felt a bit better. “Aveline, now you decide what are you going to do with all this shit – inform the mages or whatever. I can’t stay here anymore. Anders, come with me, this woman needs a healer. And please, let’s hurry, for Maker’s sake!”

…

The woman’s name was Ninette. She was a fine woman, sweet-mannered, quite intelligent and looking good for her age. Hawke even dared to say she was beautiful – at least before he learned she was older than his mother.

“That’s the adventure for you,” said she sadly. The might-have-been victim of a nutjob mage was now sitting near the chimney with a cup of tea in her left hand. The right one was tightly packed in bandages – Anders did his healing thing, but it wasn’t enough. Bad wound, he said. Bad indeed – but it would be all right, given time.

Wounds of the soul were much harder to heal.

It was night already, but Hawke couldn’t sleep. Varric was here too – he stayed at Hawke’s for moral support, as he himself put it (more likely the dwarf just knew he either wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight), as was Fenris. Merril was placed on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket and a sleep spell; Anders and Isabella were gone to slouch through today’s events in the _Hanged Man_ , most likely.

Why Fenris decided to stay he didn’t know himself.

“As a girl I often dreamed about being captured by an evil pirate. That he would have a wooden leg and big mustache. And then a prince charming would come and save me,” signed Ninette. “I’ve never thought what it could feel like, to actually be captured. To be helpless. When nothing you do or say matters, that he just wouldn’t stop…”

The woman lowered her head.

“Come on, dear,” said lady Leandra as she came into the room. She sat beside Ninette and hugged her soothingly. “It’s not your fault. No one could have known what that man was capable of…”

She drew the poor woman closer and kindly petted her back. The would-be-victim finally burst into tears.

Oh dear. Yeah, it’s hard to be a princess in such circumstances. Fenris privately thanked the Maker for giving Hawke Lady Leandra for the mother. The noble woman woke up as they stumbled into the hallway, sized up the situation and took the matter in her hands: tea and sleep for Merril, sofa and healer for the victim, encouraging touch to the shoulder and request to bring brandy for Hawke. Everyone had a place and a task, no one was neglected nor forgotten: tea was served and brandy poured into appropriate glasses.

Fenris downed the third glass. It was going to be a long night.

…

They learned what it actually was only much later, again from Aveline. Though Anders was foretelling new punitive measures for mages from the first day, but he was always saying something like that, and nobody was paying attention anymore – after all, if you repeat the same thing enough times, one day you are bound to guess it right.

“This Quentin was from the Ansburg Circle,” said Aveline as she looked at her beer mug in distaste. Local beer was indeed awful, but the reason for distaste was far from the poor beverage quality: Donnic and she had consumed for the last week more alcohol then it was good for any health.

But the soul felt better this way. It was easier to fall asleep when you were drunk.

All others went quiet and looked at her expectantly. Funny thing – at least half of Guard Capitan’s friends shared her present attitude for the beverages.

“His wife died eight years ago,” continued she her story. “He was usually quiet, had no close friends, so no one noticed the poor bastard went bonkers. He decided that if the Maker took away his wife, he could become a new Maker and create her again. The crackpot ran away from the Ansburg Circle and came here. He was wondering the streets of Kirkwall for the last few months, watching for women who looked at least a little bit like his wife, lured them to his place and killed. And after that he was _cannibalizing_ them.”

“Oh, Maker,” groaned Hawke, who looked like he wanted to drawn himself in his mug.

“So that’s why he was interested in ichor,” commended Anders thoughtfully. “It’s a perfect preserving agent. It prevents the flesh from rotting. The legend says that if you drain all the blood from body and replace it by ichor, you can live forever. What?” huffed he as he noticed his friends’ unfriendly gazes. “I just looked it up in a book!”

Fenris snorted grumpily. And they call him cold-hearted! Makes one wonder: are all healers like that or only the possessed ones?

“Looks like only First Enchanter smelled a rat,” added Aveline. “He knew Quentin back in Ansburg: but as he read his letter, he got the impression that it was not written by the same person he knew. But he didn’t expect… _that_ , so he and Knight Commander send their apology for everyone involved.”

“Ha! No offence taken,” sniffed Hawke. “You know, we should be happy it all ended with only our nerves frayed. Just think of it: how many people this crackpot would have zapped before anyone suspected foul play? It's all to the good.”

Everyone nodded. Yeah, all to the good.

And they sipped the repulsive beverage.

After that new events began to spin: these were troubled times, and people were just begging to get themselves killed in some fancy way, as if they wouldn’t get another chance. Anders finally got his nervous breakdown: it doesn't take a magic scientist to understand that no one could make all the mages tranquil, but how could you explain that to a possessed healer? And the inventive nutjob was gradually forgotten, though they all did lose a great deal of sleep due to him.

The time was passing quickly, and one day…

One day the Qunari rebelled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is rather short, sorry


	7. Chapter 7

Fenris had told Hawke many times that Qunari in town were not good. The elf knew about them enough to understand how alluring the Qun could be: sometimes he found himself thinking that he himself could have been… If not for the Fog Warriors, he would have definitely ended up a viddathari (if they didn’t kill him on sight, of course – Qunari didn’t like anyone who stood out, and his markings were a great example of exactly that). Fenris also knew that though Kossith seemed patient, they were in short supply of condescension to those who lack, from their perspective, purpose.

Kirkwall – bustling, illogical, strange Kirkwall – for Qunary was worse than a foul, stinking rag thrust under their very noses. Arishok had been patient so far, and it was only a question of time when Kirkwall ran out of luck.

But for it to be Isabella’s fault…

Fenris hadn’t understood it back then and didn’t understand now: how could anyone sleep at night knowing that nearly a whole town was slaughtered because of you?

Deaths of Fog Warriors were still a crushing burden on his conscience: they poisoned many dreams and often made him drink more wine then it was wise. Who knows that pirate girl, though: she had never liked to parade her real feelings, hiding them cleverly under the veil of lecherousness. Who can tell what dreams plague her since? And she did return at the end.

But it was all future thoughts, and they knew not what would happen: Hawke and his friends were tearing their way through Lowtown to Hightown, trying to save anyone they could and killing everyone who jumped at them. If viddathari had even a bit of intelligence, they could have pretended to be victims and then stab them in the back. Fenris looked everyone they saved right in the eyes, trying to notice even the finest sign of pretense or treachery, as he did know Qunari well - but they were in luck that day. Most viddathari were elves from Alienages – the most downtrodden, neglected and, unfortunately, the least clever citizens. Even if Qun gave them purpose, it couldn’t teach them to be cunning. Fenris often felt ashamed of his kin, of their pitiful, shabby looks and matching brains. And were they even kin? He didn’t feel so; either Dalish or city elves felt foreign and repellent for him.

Fenris always thought of himself as himself, not as an elf or anything else.

That said, they managed to reach Hightown alive and in one piece (mostly). And then they stepped into a real nightmare.

Qunari’s aim was Hightown from the very beginning. They shamelessly left viddathari cry havoc in other parts of the city and to die for the benefit of the Qun, while their warriors targeted the Viscount’s Keep.

Had Fenris mentioned before that he knew Qunari? Well, he did explain Hawke their tactical strategy from the very beginning. And described what Qunari did with those who they captured. But no explanations could prepare his friends for the real thing – the slaughter that was in every corner of the district. The scariest thing was that nothing could be done really: the squad managed somehow to fight back against the horned invaders on the Market Square with the help of the City Guard, but as soon as they left the place, the fighting began again.

“Come. We should head to the Keep,” said Fenris as he touched Hawke’s elbow. “We either win there or loose the city. There’s nothing we can do here.”

Garret nodded solemnly, and they moved on.

Above the Chantry square fireballs and magical projectiles were flying with a whizz; the air smelled of blood, ash and ozone. Qunari were having a tough time here: they were attacked by mages from one side and by templars from another, so the horned invaders retreated bit by bit toward the Market street.

 Tough luck Hawke and his squad chose this route from the Market square.

It quickly came to end; the invaders were dealt with even before people realized they had actually won this battle. Fenris had just cleaved one enemy in two, moved forward under his own momentum and nearly rammed into a frightened mage girl – he caught himself in time, but stumbled and hit the ground, inadvertently pinning someone down with him.

Fenris muttered an oath, half-rose and looked up.

He was met with a view of green elven eyes.

Most elves have green eyes. They have other colours too, but usually their eyes are green - it’s just different kind of green. Fenris’ eyes are vibrant green, just like dense grass in late summer. The eyes against him now were green like the light moss: colour that is deep and mellowly, but quiet and soft – it’s hard to appreciate its beauty at first sight.

Fenris blinked and realized suddenly that he was sprawled on the paving face to face with First Enchanter, who he’d never seen so close before; and whom, as it seemed, he inadvertently knocked down.

“Oops, sorry,” cried Hawke loudly at his ear; same Hawke jerked him towards, pulling the elf aside from his accidental victim. “It was a long day. And no, Fenris wasn’t trying to burn you with his gaze – he just doesn’t like mages much, this one. Well, maybe he in fact was trying to burn you, but he didn’t mean it. Oh, hell…”

“Hawke,” Fenris pushed him back and easily got up. “Do shut up.”

The elf looked at the prostrated mage. “Sorry,” muttered he grudgingly.

“No harm done,” said the mage and started getting up slowly, relying at his three-headed staff.

“Ah, First Enchanter Orsino,” came closer a woman in heavy armor outfit. She gave a hand to the mage, who accepted it without hesitation. “So, you did manage to survive. I see.”

“The joy in your words makes me feel embarrassed, Knight Commander Meredith,” parred the mage. He readjusted his robes and tuned to other mages. “Are everyone all right?”

“Elzbieta was wounded rather badly and Derek was hit in the leg, but everyone else are fine,” reported Bethany as she came closer. “Hello, brother,” said she to Hawke with a smile.

“Hello, kitten,” grinned Hawke heartily.

“You could not have come at a better time. Thank you for your help,” said First Enchanter politely. “So, you are indeed Messere Hawke from the expedition to the Deep Roads?”

“Hey-hey! Looks like we are celebrities here in the Gallows!” rejoiced Varric.

“Here in the Gallows we are happy with all the gossip we can get,” commented First Enchanter.

“It’s all very nice and all,” said Knight Commander in a voice that clearly stated she saw nothing nice around. “But the Qunari have nearly succeeded in taking control of the city. The more we linger here, the less chance we have to put an end to this. And if you persist on this useless conversation, you’d have a solid chance to continue it after we are all dead – which may happen sooner than you think.”

Fenris roused himself. Meredith was right – there was no time to lose.

“They will gather all the hostages in the Viscount's Keep,” said he. “Or they have gathered them already. All important and eminent citizens will be their hostages. They will be offered to submit to the Qun or die; whatever they choose, the city will be considered taken from this very moment, and Qunari will always try to capture it again.”

“Then we should try to intervene - or stink them out of the castle before they start dealing with hostages,” summarized First Enchanter, and Knight Commander nodded in agreement. The mage turned to his charges. “Kendrick!”

A middle-aged mage turned his calm face and looked at his senior.

“Stay with the wounded, please,” said Orsino to him. “Try to get back to the Gallows or hide somewhere safe. All others go with me. Come – let’s test out what spells are better suited for seizing a castle.”

Meredith motioned the templars to come with her, leaving three warriors to help the wounded mages out. Hawke looked at his motley crew and winded his head round, calling them to come along.

Knight Commander was walking alongside of First Enchanter: for one her sweepy step there were two elven steps, as the elf was a whole head shorter and three times thinner. Or maybe it just seemed so because of the heavy armor the templar was wearing.

“What, Orsino, are you not in a hurry to become apostate on the quiet?” Meredith smiled viciously.

“Not enough quiet today, I’m afraid,” parred the mage.

“Is the Qun not for your liking?”

“As far as I know, the Qun wants me in shackles and on a leash with my mouth sewn shut. An original thought, no doubt, but how could I leave you? Admit it, Meredith, who you’d swear with if not me?” said the mage lightly.

Knight Commander muttered something incoherently affirmative in response.

They did manage to win back the Central square, but after that the _liberating_ _army_ was forced to hide by the corner of the wall: the Qunari squad that was guarding the Keep entrance was indeed massive, and head attack was a guaranteed ticket to meet the Maker.

‘We may succeed in dealing with them, but it might be too late,” said Meredith. “It might already be too late.”

“But it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try!” retorted Aveline.

“No, it doesn’t,” nodded First Enchanter. “We might distract them to win an opportunity for a smaller squad to sneak into the Keep. Yours, for example. Who knows, you might do something to intervene whatever is going on there. And then we would come up.”

“I'll see you damned first!” snorted Meredith. “Why them? To put all our hopes for this city in the hands of mercenaries – what are you even thinking?”

“Former mercenaries,” corrected her Hawke. He wasn’t offended though.

“You templars have heavy armor, that makes sneaking impossible, and we need more space for effective fighting then narrow castle halls,” objected First Enchanter patiently. “You and your squad, Messere Hawke, have the best chances of us all, as you are used to fight together and all fit in.”

“All right,” nodded Hawke. Fenris and others repeated his gesture.

“Very well,” said Knight Commander; she ran an eye over the square again, as well as over Qunari horde at the gates, gauging their chances. She then nodded to the mage. “Then please start, Orsino. You did say you like long-range combat.”

The enchanter smiled in predatory way and picked up his staff. He stepped at the stairs; the Qunari noticed his small frame and craned their necks in curiosity, but didn’t attack at sight. They smelled a rat only when Orsino raised his hands with the staff, but it was too late: a giant fireball scattered them on the ground. The horned invaders collected their wits after a while and rushed at the mage to take vengeance… Fat chance! The enchanter was throwing at them fireball after fireball, gradually retreating to the square. Where, as we remember, other mages and heavily armed templars were patiently waiting for their turn to wallop the living daylights out of some Qunary.

Hawke and his squad quietly sneaked into the Keep.

All cities occupied by Qunari looked the same. Fenris knew that by experience. And he immediately recognized the thick smell of fear in the castle; well, civil servants and people of noble birth were not exactly the bravest lot. The horned missionaries should have tried Darktown: local crooks would have probably been completely unimpressed by the invasion. Or maybe rejoiced at seeing a well-padded food coming to them on its own feet.

The next few hours were just a dim recollection for Fenris. The return of Isabella, the duel between Hawke and Arishok, all these things blended in some nervous tangled mess. One thing he did remember though: as he came to Hawke’s (not feeling well enough to go to his own place) and crushed on the sofa, the last thing he recalled before falling asleep was a pair of beautiful eyes – green, like the light forest moss.


	8. Chapter 8

Life in Kirkwall resumed its natural course and returned to its normal state – illogical, bustling and strange. Fenris thought it was for the best: he got used to Kirkwall for what it was, and didn’t wish it to submit to the _mighty_ Qun. The city had one unique feature – it recovered quickly from any wound; the Viscount duties were shared between Seneschal Bran and Knight Commander Meredith till the new Viscount was appointed (here in Free Marches it was a long and irksome process); mages and templars returned to the Gallows and continued to curse each other, as if nothing happened; the Qunari bodies were tidied up and thrown away, the fallen citizens were mourned over and buried. Hawke was given a fancy title - the _Champion of Kirkwall_ , and he was complaining all the time that some odd people kept sending him invitations for some weird parties and same people persist in asking odd things of him; Varric offered him to keep a ledger of who, what and when asked, dropping sly hints that such an approach would pay off in future.

Isabella did return for real and was busy at first with getting herself pissed silly at the _Hanged Man_ ; with that she had no problem, as hardly anyone knew of her part in Qunary invasion, because most witnesses of the famous duel were of noble birth and they had no idea who Capitan Isabella was – they simply didn’t get what was so important about the dirty old book everyone kept shouting about. Merril was fiddling with her bloody mirror, Aveline was cleaning up the mess, Bethany was sitting in the Circle, Carver was diligently writing letters, Sebastian was wasting his life in the Chantry and Anders was going mad bit by bit.

As he stated before, things were as usual.

About two weeks after the invasion Fenris noticed First Enchanter on the streets, as before; he was going in the direction of Market square, accompanied by Sir Cullen. Fenris inadvertently, out of habit (when did he even manage to develop it?) followed him with his eyes; looked like the elder elf felt it, because he turned his head and looked straight at him. A shadow of recognition darkened his eyes; the enchanter gave another elf a small smile and a nod in greeting. Fenris gave a slow, morose nod in return, dumbfounded by the novelty of the situation.

The mage’s smile grew larger, his eyes twinkled with harbored amusement. Fenris thought he was laughing at him: he felt a familiar rage rising in his chest, and wanted to say something nasty – but at the same moment Cullen claimed the attention of the mage with some question. The enchanter answered, and they passed by the Broody Elf, taking no further notice of him.

Fenris did remember an odd feeling of helplessness that flooded him. He wanted… wanted to do _something_. Kill someone, for example. And he, overwhelmed by the odd, indistinct feelings, padded to Hawke. The human always had interesting ideas that involved killing someone who deserved it.

The time passed by. All was well: Varric was busy writing his masterpiece, teasing Aveline with it mercilessly; Isabella got herself involved in some hugger-muggery, Sebastian began coming to Hawke’s more often, wagging the Chantry (and Fenris started to think the lad wasn’t complete nut-case, because he elf just couldn’t get why people needed to believe in god who abandoned them; it must be some kind of perversion only free people get). Anders was growing more scary with every hour; Fenris saw the abomination was loosing his last nuts, but others only frowned or brushed the issue aside. Well, he did understand that – he too didn’t know how to convert the abomination back to normal, apart from killing him. Fenris learned how to greet First Enchanter with a calm, dignified nod and even spoke a few times with Knight Capitan Cullen, who appeared to be all right. For Kirkwall, at least.

But the tension in the air had never stopped growing. Sir Cullen complained a few times that Knight Commander sometimes became too quarrelsome, petty and distrustful (one or two times Knight Capitan even admitted in a low whisper that his superior was clearly going bonkers, and no one knew what to do with it; Fenris with Anders in mind only nodded sympathetically). Lady Leandra and Garret brought bad news every time they visited Bethany: some templars, not managed properly by their superior, pressed the mages harder, and some mages in response became hysterical.

“It seems to me sometimes that we live in a city full of maleficars,” complained Hawke one evening as he joined his friends at the Wicked Grace table. “You can’t swing a cat without hitting a maleficar or two.”

“Then don’t swing cats, it is unhuman,” said Aveline impassively as she shuffled cards – it was her turn to deal.

“I can’t stop now. Looks like swinging cats is a part of this _Champion_ business. Pity they don’t give a manual with the titles,” sighed Hawke. He fumbled in his pocket and got a letter out of it. “This is from First Enchanter. Three mages are missing, he says. They need to be found – preferably alive, that’s why he doesn’t like the idea of templars doing it. Just in case. He invites us to visit him tomorrow – wanna come?”

Most people at the table nodded in agreement, even Fenris.

“Well, our First Enchanter is an earnest fellow,” noted Varric as he glanced at his cards. “Last time we did dispose of a nutjob mage at his suggestion. So, it’s not likely he sends for us over trifles.”

“But if those mages have fled from oppression and bullying…” started Anders and was hushed as usual.

“We’ll meet them personally and ask,” promised him Hawke.

…

First Enchanter’s chambers were rather cozy, which was surprising. The coziness was probably achieved by concealing cold gloomy walls behind the bookshelves; books, scrolls, tablets, folders and some scientific things, completely unknown to Fenris, were scattered all around. One corner of the room was fenced off by a huge desk made of some auburn wood that looked silky and smooth to the touch – the narrow passage between the wall and the desk was enough only for the thin as a toothpick host. Books and papers were piled up on the desk, coffee table and even on the armchair.

The air smelled of chocolate and something else, unusual and elusive (Fenris learned about the elder elf’s smoking habit only much, much later).

“Messere Hawke,” greeted First Enchanter his guest warmly and turned to others, whom he greeted with the same warmth and without any awkwardness. “Thank you for coming. I apologize for bothering you with my problems, but it’s not easy now to ask help from templars, though there are many nice and worthy persons among them.”

Anders sniffed in contempt, and Isabella elbowed him to stop from showing off. First Enchanter pretended not to notice, but Fenris caught a glimpse of his thoughtful gaze directed on the abomination.

“No problem at all,” grinned Hawke. “Or, if there actually is a problem, we’ll deal with it – or kill it. Come on, tell us what’s what.”

First Enchanter looked at Champion of Kirkwall with a mixture of annoyance and amusement, as if he was wondering: how could a creature so ridiculously slaphappy possibly exist?

“Three mages did not return to curfew,” explained he. “It’s not unheard of, but unfortunately, their decision was oddly timed. They should be found, and quickly, before Knight Commander raises hell and declares a manhunt for maleficars. Meredith agreed to wait till tomorrow. I’ve prepared a list for you with names and places these people were often seen before.”

The enchanter gave Garret a piece of paper full of notes in neat and dense handwriting. The Champion took the list with a frown, studied it for a moment and nodded. “OK. We’ll let you know if there are any news.”

“Thank you,” said First Enchanter with a smile.

Later, when they stepped out of the Gallows, Hawke gave the list to Aveline for a thorough reading and rumpled his hair carelessly. “Well, maybe it will work out all right,” he said.

It didn’t, of course. Though Varric and Isabella did find the noble boy and gave him back to the Circle (it was obvious such an idiot couldn’t live by himself), the other two mages turned out to be maleficars. They planned to sell their free life dearly, but Hawke’s squad became rather skilled in fighting blood mages, and it all ended quickly, though still badly.

“Would you like some tea? With chocolate?” asked First Enchanter later in the evening, as they came to see him.

Garret, Fenris and Aveline nodded in unison. They were so tired after this long day that would have gladly agreed to try even some dry and moldy toast if offered. Other fellows were already resting at their homes or otherwise – today indeed was hell of a day.

Fenris took an offered cup, a bit surprised at the sight of the said cup – it was round, like a ball, with thick walls. Though it was pleasant to touch and warmed his fingers nicely. And the tea was tasty – and chocolates, too.

“Treating others with chocolate often?” said Hawke, nodding at the big chocolate box and tea set for at least twenty people.

“For the last few months - on a regular basis. Chocolate is good for soothing the nerves. A treat for the optimists, they say. We seem to be lacking the bright side nowadays,” signed the enchanter.

Judging by the huge monstrosity of a box, optimism either was supposed to be taken in very large doses or it was more than just lacking. Hawke decided to see the bright side of the thing.

“So, you have a sweet tooth, as I see?” asked he.

“I have,” smiled the elven mage. But the smile was soon gone, and First Enchanter became serious again. “Thank you for your help,” said he. “It’s a shame we can’t put things right now, but what done is done. You know what’s the worst thing? They didn’t have any real reason to turn to blood magic. I knew them both, Huon and Evelyn; they didn’t have anything to gain after giving their lives away. It is very strange.”

“Blood mages always find excuses for what they do,” said Fenris bitterly.

But First Enchanter wasn’t offended. And he didn’t deny it straight off too.

“Yes, they do,” said he. “But there should be at least some logic. Or reason. Life is no candy, people usually don’t give it away freely or without a very solid reason. And mages are still people, whatever some persons tend to think. No one can go on with his life and bang! – suddenly go mad. There should be something that pushed them to the edge… Though, never mind. These issues are for me to deal with. Thank you again.”

They took their leave politely. Though as they were going down the hall, the door opened on the opposite side, and Meredith leaped out of it like a jack-in-the-box. They greeted her properly, but Knight Commander only darted her eyes around, straddled determinately across the hall and flung the enchanter’s door open.

“Orsino!” cried she. “What on earth-”

The door smashed closed.

“Looks like Knight Commander is out of humor today”, noted Hawke.

“Aside from humor, the scene she made was completely unnecessary,” said Aveline. “What an example she provides for the templars?”

Fenris remained silent. He also didn’t like what he’d just seen. What was going on with Knight Commander?


	9. Chapter 9

The city aura was getting more and more oppressive. It felt like people were always waiting for something bad to come out of the blue. Fenris had already got his piece and wasn’t very keen on the city sighting at the moment. The one out of the blue was his… well, his sister. Though what kind of sister she was? Family should love each other. Trust each other. Never betray each other. They should be like Hawke’s family! Like… damn, even some bystanders treated Fenris better than his own sister – the one that was supposed to love him most!

Killing Danarius was a nice touch though.

After this visit to the _Hanged Man_ Fenris locked himself at his annexed estate in the company of many wine bottles and occasional visits from Hawke or Varric. Even Aveline came once to grumble at him and criticize his habit of dawdling away the time; her husband though winked at the elf and gestured that he’d left the package under the chair. In the package was a fine whiskey from Rivain.

And Fenris wasn’t actually dawdling away (though his liver might disagree). He was thinking. He thought about many things and decided that he liked to be Fenris. Not Leto – Fenris. The very one who used to spend a lot of time on strange quests with this reckless idiot Hawke, with Varric, with Aveline… With _his_ friends. The one who started to like Kirkwall, the city he’d lived for six years. And he, Fenris, wanted to venture into dubious projects, as always, to cheat in cards, to nod politely every time he met First Enchanter, to shake hands with Sir Cullen and ask him how the new recruits were faring. Before he was always waiting for the new, free and happy life to start; now he realized this life was already there. And he wanted to see where it would take him.

But these thoughts were articulated much, much later. He was a very confused mess back then, though he did manage to finally sober up. Hawke, Varric and Aveline fished the elf out of his house and dragged him, ruffled up and even more grumpy than usual, to _unwind_ a bit and meet Bethany. They were not in luck that day though; as they came to the Gallows, they learned Bethany couldn’t get out of the building – she was substituting some other mage at the exam. It couldn’t be helped, so they just hanged about the Gallows a bit, had a few words with some familiar templars and gawked at the new swords in the store.

Suddenly Fenris felt a hateful gaze by the back of his neck.

He turned around.

Oh.

Fenris touched Hawke’s elbow, knowing that the thick-skinned blockhead was completely immune to all kinds of gazes, no matter how much hate was invested.

And who do you think the sender was? Grace, of course. The mage was standing with some of her colleagues: they whispered so conspiratorially that even a complete dummy would have smelled something dubious. Fenris didn’t like Grace – he hadn’t liked her since the first meeting. The elf might have been too distrustful of magic from time to time, but he did have brains – he acknowledged (however reluctantly) that Bethany, for example, was fine. But Grace? Grace could make a fine sister for Hadriana: she too liked to bitch and moan about hardships of being a magister’s pupil, and also enjoyed making up impossible tasks for slaves. Sure, only her issues were worthy of sympathy and attention.

“Grace!” cried Hawke and waved his hand. “How are things?”

“Why do you care?” spitted the mage as she came closer. “You don’t know what it’s like, to live in captivity! How it feels, when templars are always watching you, watching your every step!”

You see? Hadriana in a flesh. As it happens, Hawke’s sister was in the Circle – and she wasn’t complaining much. But people like Grace never cared for anyone but themselves.

After spilling her poison, the mage turned proudly and walked away, not interested in whatever they had to say. Other mages strode after her like a humble herd.

“I don’t like it,” stated Hawke who watched the retreating mages thoughtfully. “There is some scheme here, I can smell it.”

“There is,” said the voice right behind them. As they turned over, they saw First Enchanter Orsino, who was leaning carelessly against the wall, shadowed by the archway. “And to be honest, I feel a bit insulted that my own charges treat me like an idiot,” signed the mage tiredly.

“Do you know what they are planning?” asked Hawke.

“I do. In bare outlines,” said Orsino with a facepalm. “They are not exactly unique, you know. Every year there is a mage or two who trade working and studying for ransacking the library in search of some textbook like _How to Summon the Strongest Demon Ever_. And to get themselves killed by said demon with much fanfare. To be honest, I’d have handed these idiots over to Meredith with pleasure, but I can’t, because it’s not just about them. There is also a question of a few young, naïve fools, who are happy to follow any motto bright enough. I don’t like the idea of them being dragged to the deep with the others, not to mention that we can’t punish for intentions only. Oh, how I hate the unscrupulous idiots who never try to stop and consider the incidental injuries…”

Hawke winced in sympathy. Bad ideas were very alluring, especially for mages, and the Champion had already learned a lot about incidental injuries.

“This Grace wench once have planned to kill a nice templar straight off for the sake of her freedom,” reminded Varric to everyone. “There is no telling what she is planning now when she has time to plot.”

“And you refused to do as she asked?” frowned Orsino. “She might be angry than, and might want revenge. As far as I know from their _secret_ meetings, they are planning a break-out with hostages. I advise you to be cautious, Messere Hawke, and to keep close the people you care for. In case of a worst outcome no one would shed tears for Grace and her sidekicks, but please, if you get involved, spare the young children who are just too gullible to see the real reasons for Grace’s actions. I’m trying to keep things under control and not to let them put their plans into action, but my authority is limited here and practically nonexistent outside these walls.”

“Have you tried to talk to her? To let Grace know you are aware of her plans?” asked Aveline.

“Three times – and that counting only this week,” said the enchanter, rising his eyebrow expressively. “As a result, now I’m considered a despised traitor. Of course, because I should care more about three self-obsessed, stupid women, who are one step away from becoming maleficars, and forget about naïve idiots who let themselves be led astray! Unfortunately, fancy talks of freedom are contagious, and the mages are less keen on listening to me now. They are just letting these stupid women drag them to the deepest trouble!” Orsino nearly shouted at the end; he cut himself off abruptly and facepalmed. “I apologize. Sometimes I feel like there is something evil around here that is driving us all mad,” said he much more calmly.

“I too feel that way,” signed Hawke and looked at the mage compassionately. “And I often feel nowadays that it’s not just a feeling… Thank you for the warning, First Enchanter. And in case of a worst outcome we will… try.”

Orsino gave them his usual smile, tired and grateful. They bid the mage farewell and walked out of the Gallows; Fenris, though, was still seeing this smile in his mind. Why? Why did this elven mage affect him so?... Why his every gesture seemed so… so beautiful? On the last word Fenris cringed and slammed his fist in the flaked house wall. His friends looked at him with surprise, but no one asked, what the matter was – mages and maleficars were a fine excuse for any kind of behavior for Fenris. Even if Grumpy Elf payed no heed to the conversation, taking in the view of First Enchanter instead.

Hell! Fenris groaned and hit the wall again.

Next day they finally caught up with Bethany. She told them an enthusiastic story about the basic illusion spells exam, waving her hands excitedly and demonstrating some simple charms. Even Fenris admitted that curling stream of smoke and fluttering butterfly in mage’s hands looked impressive.

And harmless enough. Fenris doubted anyone would think of using blood magic to create a particularly beautiful butterfly.

“What do you think of Grace, by the way?” asked Hawke his sister casually.

“Nothing,” snorted Bethany. “I don’t like thinking about her, as she is a brawler and silly bitch.”

“Stay away from her, kitten, all right?” asked her Hawke. “Just in case she is still peeved with me after all these years.”

“Fine, I will,” smiled Bethany. “She does look like a peevish person.”

“What is it with you Kirkwall mages and mages from Starkhaven? What are you doing to them to make them feel so oppressed – do you push them around all day?”

“As if!” snorted Bethany. “That’s the point – no one is making them do anything extraordinary, but they react as if they are treated like slaves! You know, brother, peeling a bucket of potatoes is not an oppression, it’s a part of everyday life. Kitchen duty, garden work or laundry are not that bad, considering everyone wants to eat and wear clean clothes. Maybe things were different in Starkhaven Circle, but here in Kirkwall it isn’t allowed to use the Tranquil on household duties.”

“Really?” said Hawke, clearly surprised. They all knew Bethany also worked at the Circle bakery, but Fenris, for example, thought it was her own initiative: she always liked to bake and often treated them delicious pastry back when Hawkes lived at Gamlen’s.

“Have you ever thought where the money for the Circle come from? We are not freeloaders here. And don’t pull a face at me, you dolt, I know you’ve never realized that. The seniors told me the details: the city magistrate covers only a quarter of out expenses, and the remaining amount should be payed by us. The Tranquil can make real money, so we let them do their own job – making artifacts and so on. Our mages also consult on complicated magic issues, give prelections, hold workshops, make magic security systems and alarm charms for houses and so on. There were trade fairs once in Kirkwall, the Circle performed conjuring tricks there. We all work, you see? No one will pay for our needs just because we are mages! And helping each other with household duties is only fair.”

Hawke nodded, evidently proud of his clever little sister. Fenris, on the other hand, pondered over the new information. He’d never cared how the Circles were organized, but the issue in question was indeed interesting. How would mages pay their bills if they were free, like Anders wanted? There were two mages in Hawke’s squad, and they both were a good example of how mages really fitted in free life: one was struggling in Darktown, trying to survive on scraps the city’s poor brought him in gratitude for healing, and the other was living in alienage, where things were even worse. Merrill wasn’t starving only because of Hawke and Varric, who slipped her money and food out of sheer kindness (they preferred the latter, as the dreamy girl still couldn’t fully grasp the idea of money). Without their help even the zephyrian elven mage would have pined away like a candle.

Fenris winced. He didn’t like mages, but he wasn’t a fool either: he himself lived on money he got from jobs that same Hawke, Varric and Aveline helped him with. Sir Cullen used to call him in for a templar training – to teach recruits fighting in unusual conditions, but is wasn’t happening very often nowadays: Meredith rarely authorized a training like that. Which was a pity, because Fenris liked these trainings. Nothing helped to keep fit like training with fellow warriors who knew how to deal with lyrium. Last time Cullen even gave the Grumpy Elf a friendly smack on the shoulder and admitted he’d never wanted to fight against him for real. Fenris decided it was the best compliment ever.

But of course, one day Grace finally screw them all over.

“Messere Hawke,” said Meredith in a displeased tone, as she appeared once at the mansion’s door. They were playing cards that day – Hawke had already managed to gamble away his shirt and left shoe.

Though Meredith didn’t appreciate the view – unlike the other women present and one Anders.

“A few mages have escaped from the Circle. _With_ some of the templars,” Meredith winced like she bit a lemon. “They managed to get out of town. We’ve surrounded them at the Wounded Coast, but they did acquire a good position there. We are prepared to take them by assault, but they asked for you. Personally. And if you can help to prevent an unnecessary bloodshed…”

“We’ll go,” nodded Garret. “Isabella! Give my shoe back, I’ll owe you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those few who follow: the next chapter will be delayed for a week, maybe two. I have a lot of work on my lap right now, and have to deal with it before continuing with the usual shedule. Sorry.


	10. Chapter 10

As it turned out, Grace asked for Hawke just to take her chance to dunk the Champion in dirt and use him as a hostage. A silly plan, no doubt, but her brains were already rotten from the endless stream of pity she felt for herself.

The bloodshed couldn’t be avoided completely, but the ‘naïve idiots’ First Enchanter was worrying about did not participate in it: they dropped their staffs and scattered over the clearing as soon as they saw the first blood magic spell, and the templar conspirators, including Sir Thrask, pushed back against the maleficars.

But there still were victims.

“I thank you, Messere Hawke,” said Meredith primly, as she gathered her templars and expertly counted them, checking if everyone was all right. “You may leave now. We’ll deal with these traitors and apostates by ourselves.”

The ‘traitors and apostates’ became gloomy. Looked like they knew what was coming.

“Always happy to help,” cried Hawke; he was trying to rub off a patch of blood from his nose, but with no luck. So he just left it there and wagged a finger at the exposed conspirators. “No more funny business, you lot!”

The squad gathered quickly and raced to the city.

“We should warn Orsino,” flung off Hawke, and his friends nodded in agreement – even Fenris. Anders, gloomy like a storm cloud, was growing grumpier with every step.

They found First Enchanter at the Gallows’ square. The mage was pacing nervously at the pavement, while Sir Cullen was staying calmly at one place, like a beacon of composure.

“Grace is dead,” enlighted them Hawke straight away by shouting across half of the square. “As well as her trusted companions. Others are taken in custody by Meredith.”

First Enchanter stopped his hectic pacing. He slouched his shoulders – for a moment Orsino looked so miserable, that Fenris felt anger… and hurt. But the mage collected himself swiftly.

“Did they fight? Or put up a resistance?” inquired he.

Aveline shook her head. “No. When Grace turned to blood magic, they turned against her.”

“Thank the Maker,” said Cullen. “And what about templars?”

“The same.”

The mage and the knight exchanged glances and breathed a sigh of relief.

“So, there is still hope for us,” reasoned the enchanter. “How was Meredith today? Was she all right or got another one of her odd onsets?”

“She was fine in the morning,” reported Sir Cullen.

“What is going on with her?” asked Hawke.

“Hell if I know,” said Orsino in annoyed voice. “One moment she is her normal self and the next she is an epitome of entrenched paranoia. And it’s getting worse. Before she herself knew she was behaving oddly, but nowadays it’s not always the case. Well… Thank you, Messeres. It is our turn now to deal with this mess.”

And they did. Fenris didn’t know – and wasn’t very interested in it – how exactly did they manage to make peace, but since there was no gossip about horribly murdered conspirators, one should think that peace it was. At the moment the elf was more concerned with strange throes of yearning he kept having – the throes were happening more often, and they made him sulk and think about the eyes of beautiful colour - like a light forest moss. Fenris was getting all worked up and could have kept this for ages, if not for Varric. The dwarf once just pulled the elf to the side, while others were turning the air blue at the cards table – the round was finished, and the friends were trying to call Isabella’s bluff or at least put her to the blush.

“You know, my grumpy friend, you should finally do something about it,” stated the dwarf.

“What are you babbling about?” scowled Fenris.

“I’m trying to talk some sense into you, elf. You should either put First Enchanter out of your head or get the nerve up to ask the guy out!”

Fenris instantly bristled up. “What?? Why should I-“

“Because,” continued Varric as if nothing could daunt him. “Broody, you look at him like a dog looks at the best bone in the world. And when he isn’t around, you mope and pine like a dove. And trust me, the look on your face doesn’t suit you.”

Fenris scowled even more. Whatever gave the stupid dwarf the idea that he… he liked...?

‘ _What, you think you don’t?_ ’ asked his inner voice.

‘ _No, I don’t,_ ’ thought Fenris. ‘ _I just… It’s just…_ ’

But Fenris wasn’t a fool. And as his thoughts were pushed in right direction, they swirled a bit in a self-denial state, formed a chain of logical outputs and finally put straight everything that tormenter the elf all this time. And he came to an inevitable conclusion.

You like him, you elven dolt. You’ve fallen in love, for the first time in your live – and haven’t even understood what’s going on with you!

And what is he supposed to do now?

“I’ve told you, ask him out,” advised Varric. Either Fenris said the last phrase out loud or his face expression was clear enough. “Just don’t invite him to your house: it’s not proper, not to mention that your lair has more spiders in it then it is safe for your nervous system.”

Fenris snorted angrily in response.

But the idea was interesting and actually sound. The elf knew close to nothing about love (but he did remember Aveline in love, so he understood the severity of the issue) and welcomed any advice from an adequate source. And Varric, despite his tend to sugar-coat and make things up, was adequate. And his idea to invite First Enchanter somewhere was growing more and more appealing. Fenris even caught himself having a _romantic_ dream and grew angry with himself.

Well, to the point. He needs to ask First Enchanter… Orsino out. Where to?

This was what Varric and later Hawke could help him with. They offered to start small and simple: ask First Enchanter to join them at the _Hanged Man_ for a friendly game of cards. They’d known each other for ages, right? And after a few rounds of _Wicked Grace_ Fenris would have seized the moment to offer the mage to see him safely to the Gallows. The elf pondered about the plan for a bit and after all agreed: the plan was simple, elegant and not so… well, scary, as the real date. Damn, these _romantic_ words are everywhere!

Furthermore Fenris had a long and rewarding talk with Donnic and a bottle of Rivain about married life and for that matter came to terms with himself being in love. He was ready to do something about it.

But it was not meant to be.

…

Fenris would have appreciated the chance to beat up the fate in form of Anders. But he wasn’t alone in this wish – a lot of people lined up, though Fenris though his cause was the most valid of all.

This day there was a row on the square – some mages and their escort were yet again late for the curfew. Recently Meredith’s favorite amusement was making an ambush for idiots with no sense of timing and self-preservation. Knight Commander had caught her today’s prey and was yelling with abandon, taking her bad mood at them. Usually the rant ended with sending for First Enchanter, who for his part brought Grand Cleric Elthina – she was the only one who could break up the bawlers and send them back to the Gallows. And after a few quiet nights the cycle began again. Both Hawke and Fenris, who lived in Hightown, were already so used to these gigs that didn’t pay attention to them.

This time wasn’t an exception.

They were coming from the Bone Pit, just after killing a high dragon and barely surviving the process. Garret was cursing Anders beneath his breath – he healer decided against coming with them this time, as he had some kind of business. And, as ill luck would have it, today they needed the healer badly: Aveline was still limping, even though she’d used two potions already. Dragons were nasty opponents.

 “Oh, they are screeching again,” noted Hawke.

“Yeah,” said Varric: he was busy with polishing a particularly foul notch on Bianca (the notch was so small that even Fenris with his sharp elven sight couldn’t see it, but the dwarf claimed it was right there). “Funny there are so many idiots in the Circle. What do they have, a death wish? Would you dare to be late if Meredith was your boss?”

“Hell no!” shook his head Garret, horrified with the perspective.

“Some people just can’t learn from their mistakes,” remarked Aveline. “By the way, if you look closer, it is always the same mages who are late.”

They got to the Chantry square, where Knight Commander was reciting her best curses: no salty words were used, but the meaning of the whole sentences was salty all right. Varric, always the writer, took out his notebook and put down some really catchy phrases.

They stopped not far from the rowing people, taking a respite before heading at last to Hawke’s, where was warm food, plenty of water and other beverages, handy andy Bodann (who had grown very skilled in making bandages and applying ointments), and sweet Lady Leandra – in short, there was everything tired people needed after a long day. As far as he remembered, they were discussing something: either Varric was teasing Aveline, or Isabella was boasting her antics… Fenris saw Sir Cullen out of the corner of his eye – the knight was already on the square, but alone, and was listening to his superior with a sour look on his face.

And in one moment everything collapsed.

The Chantry was blown up – on a massive scale, in enormous explosion, it burst into bright, unreal flame and just… fell apart. Seized to be. All people were scattered around like pieces of glass, their lungs full of smoke and dust. The air smelled strongly of ammonia – Fenris for some reason remembered this ammonia stench very well.

They got up and ran towards what was left of the Chantry.

“Elthina!” cried Sebastian as loud as he could. The lad was away from the Chantry today – he wanted to see a dragon…

Fenris saw Cullen mouthing ‘Orsino’ silently.

His heart fell.

The elf did not hear anything afterwards – he wasn’t thinking. Wasn’t existing. He was just standing in the middle of a ruined square, curses and moans everywhere, and tried to understand: how did it come to be? What was this? Only yesterday he couldn’t sleep again because of the vision of beautiful eyes, eyes in the colour of a light moss, and Varric was laughing at him afterwards, meaning Fenris was gathering his courage for far too long, and Hawke was saying that he’d already arranged everything and the enchanter would be joining them at Sunday… Fenris was counting days till Sunday! It hasn’t come yet!

“…I’ll gather the Starkhaven army and wipe clean this horrible city together with you and your mages!”

Sebastian voice, as far as Fenris could hear. Too loud. Should he kill him? It would be quieter then. Nicer.

“Stop it,” said Hawke in icy cold voice. He hit the prince in the solar plexus, took him by the scruff of his neck and turned him to face Fenris. “Do you think you are the only one who have lost someone today?”

Sebastian slumped on the ground and began to sob.

Fenris absentmindedly thought that this thing, sobbing, seemed to help. But how people do it?

Cullen silently came and grabbed the elf by the shoulder. He squeezed it, hard, and Fenris felt the pain – and finally snapped out of it. He looked the knight right into the eyes and was met with the look of hurt, outrage and sympathy. Fenris was afraid to think what his own eyes looked like in that moment.

“Anders,” stated Hawke coldly, but his ice demeanor didn’t last. “What the hell??” screamed he at the mage.

“Mages and templars can’t live in peace,” said the abomination. “And there can be no peace now! We should fight and get our freedom, once and for all!”

“What?” cried Cullen. “What kind of shit is he talking about? Bloody hell! And what does Orsino and his charges have to do with it?”

The obsessed missionary actually looked embarrassed. “They weren’t supposed to be there…”

“Oh, really? Should we all feel better now?”

To Fenris’ surprise, these were his words. And everyone looked at him.

And at this moment, as it had always happened in Kirkwall, things became worse.

“An apostate. Has. Blown. Up. The Chantry?” said Meredith slowly. She wasn’t looking good – in fact, she looked downright scary. Like a mage, who was just about to cut his hand and summon some nasty demon. Fenris had seen a face expression like this many times, but never on a templar.

“First Enchanter is dead! The Circle is broken! I evoke the Right of Annulment!

And the hell broke loose.

Cullen tried to reason with her in vain; Hawke, Aveline, Seneschal Bran and the senior mages, mad with horror and grief – everyone tried to talk some sense into Knight Commander, but it was all for nothing. Finally Meredith unsheathed her sword, that shone brightly with red lyrium, and Hawke and others understood that there indeed could be no peace. And they prepared to defend themselves.

It was the most horrible battle Fenris had ever seen. The apathy that had claimed his mind earlier was now the only thing that protected him from madness: so what if the commander was jumping across the square like a mad squirrel? And became a bit red… and the statues started to move… no big deal. The statues, though, were a real pain in the arse – they were hard and solid, how were people even supposed to hurt these things?

But they managed to stay till the end. Infamous Knight Commander Meredith was burned in lyrium flames; the bloody statues crumbled into pieces; the people performed all the familiar rituals to mourn their dead; downtrodden templars and mages returned to the Gallows and as the time had passed, continued to curse each other… Seneschal Bran was appointed as Viscount at last; some strange people started looking for Hawke, and he, being a wise man already, left the city together with his mother and vanished into thin air, leaving his new address with Bethany. Fenris thought it was for the best. Varric was still living in the _Hanged Man_ , but the elf saw he was growing uneasy here. Isabella swanned off on her new ship together with Merril (‘ _A girl needs some education_ ,’ she said); she promised everyone a place on her ship at a whistle. Anders had run away – killing him was useless, as he most likely hadn’t even understood what he’d done in his _Justice_ fever. Sebastian recovered with time, throw the Chantry vows away from his head and departed for his native town with the aim of becoming a prince – as you see, the lad did grow some brains after all.

Fenris stood at the smoldering ruins. He couldn’t decide what he should do now, though he did have offers. But he wasn’t up to taking any of them yet. He just came here regularly to think nothing.

The Chantry ruins were cleared up. They say that the new Chantry would be built somewhere else, and here would be a monument or a memorial. Fenris thought it a vulgar gesture.

Suddenly he heard the sound of steps behind.

It was Sir Cullen. His presence Fenris valued the most nowadays: the knight didn’t know a thing about feelings and wasn’t trying to say something wise – or to talk about it at all, so his company now was the most pleasant. And the knight himself was in turmoil.

He didn’t have his templar gear now; instead Cullen was wearing light jacket, suited for travel, and was holding a knapsack.

“I’ve left the Order,” said he, as he noticed the elf’s questioning look. “I’ve met Cassandra recently, she is a Seeker of Truth. She told me they are organizing something new by the order of the Divine, and they are in need of skilled warriors. So, I decided to come and see for myself – maybe it is something worthy after all. Cassandra can be trusted, I know her well. Wanna come too?”

Fenris casted the final long glance at the ruins and nodded.


	11. Chapter 11

The air of Skyhold was unsettling. Again. Nothing new, as you see.

People finally settled down on a new place and, as the horrible memories of the old place faded away, they started to calm down and wonder what had actually happened there. And, as they couldn’t go bother Corypheus with accusations, they settled with those who were a bit closer – namely the just appointed Inquisitor and her Advisors. So, there was no end to people who wanted to express their opinion, which, by the way, wasn’t very original.

“It’s blood magic!” sputtered the templars.

“So what?” asked Rian Lavellan. She was becoming very proficient in dealing with idiots.

“Blood magic!!” cried templars as if they wanted to scare her into running away, screaming.

“Yeah,” nodded she. “So what?”

“What do you mean by ‘what’?” cried some Knight Capitan, throwing out his hands to demonstrate the severity of the issue.

Lavellan was not impressed.

Instead she looked at the templars with her clear, sincere eyes filled with very sincere bafflement.

“Blood magic is the filthiest kind of magic that is disgusted by the Maker,” said Fiona, who suddenly appeared at the scene by stepping away from the shadows of the wall.

“If the Maker is so disgusted, why make it at all?” asked Lavellan. The question wasn’t very original either, but it baffled the audience for a moment – and this moment was enough for the Inquisitor to slip into the castle, away from annoying crowd.

“What the hell is wrong with these people?” wondered she angrily as she finally got to the safety of the castle walls. At least there folk didn’t talk about the dangers of magic all the time.

“Bothering you again, are they?” asked Varric, his voice full of sympathy. The dwarf was sitting in front of a pile of papers, but this time the pile didn’t look like accounts and statements – actually, it looked a lot like a novel’s draft. Seemed like the dwarven Muse was back.

Rian sat near Varric and tried to look over his shoulder. “The hell they are,” admitted she, craning her neck in curiosity.

Varric smirked and moved a bit, successfully shielding his papers. He was obviously skilled in such maneuvers.

Lavellan snorted good-naturedly and stopped trying. She relaxed on a bench and threw her head back. “I hate idiots,” complained she, rubbing her temples in vain attempt to keep the headache at bay. “They are happy to use anything – and I mean, _any_ thing, - to save themselves. I haven’t noticed anyone to hurry and step forward in Haven – it was maleficars who did the job, and it was them who faced the red templars there, not these people. Both mages and templars messed up a great deal in this war, but Fiona still feels righteous enough to come down hard on Orsino!”

“Ha! I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Varric. “Our withered Flower is just suffering from nips in her dignity. Don’t put much thought into it, Shiny. And I guess Orsino is called Sly Fox not just because his hair was red. Funny people, these mages – I’ve never thought they like nicknames.”

“What? You thought you are one-of-a-kind?” smiled Rian.

“I am,” stated the dwarf proudly. “But some people are getting dangerously close to my pedestal, so I may kick them… accidentally. By the way, it’s good you are there – I wanted to talk to you.”

The elven Inquisitor shuddered. Nowadays she was getting nervous every time people indicated they wanted something from her – which was happening, hell, all the _bloody_ time.

Varric, of course, noticed it.

“Take it easy, Shiny, I’m not going to sit on your neck!” laughed he. “I’ve just wanted… well, advice, maybe.” The dwarf rumpled his hair, looking helpless, and tugged one strand with a sign. “Well, I’ve… called for a friend. For help. He has met this Corypheus shit and might provide an insight, not to mention that he’s already dug up something interesting. It’s just… well, do you know a place where I could hide from Cassandra for a year or two?”

“You called for Hawke?” cried Lavellan, not believing her ears.

“Quiet!” hushed her the dwarf. “Of course I did, after all shit that happened! Does it actually surprise you that I have his address, but I’m not willing to give it to anyone? Hawke _ran_ away from people who were very persistent in searching for him. How could I betray his trust? Your company, Shiny, might look decent, but it is pretty indecent to harass a single man with all troubles in the world.”

Lavellan pondered a bit about that and agreed. The dwarf did have a point.

But how could they explain it to Cassandra?

…

The yard of Skyhold was once again full of people who liked to quarrel.

“These two mages were engaged in… indecent activities! In the tavern!” cried Chancellor Roderick.

Actually, he was behaving much better than in the beginning, as the things calmed down a bit. He gave the reins of power to Mother Giselle without questions or complaints, and after that he actually turned out to be a fine person. Well, most of the time.

“I agree, tavern is a bit vulgar,” nodded Orsino. “Elana and I would speak with them about it.”

The Chancellor grew so red in the face that it looked like an overripe tomato. “Have you heard me at all? They were engaged in indecent-”

“Activities, yes, I got that bit. Just don’t describe it in details, please, I’ve been a First Enchanter for many years and have seen enough, thank you.”

Chancellor Roderic cried so loud that it must have been heard in Ferelden. “You are condoning a debauchery!”

“For Maker’s sake, two teenagers in a dark room is hormones, no debauchery!”

“How could you..?”

“I have nothing to do with it, if that’s what you are asking. I wasn’t even there!”

The Chancellor couldn’t grow any redder, so he began to pace frantically before the enchanter, who was standing like an epitome of calm and was watching the man with kind interest. “They are a disgrace for an Inquisition!”

“Ad far as I know, love is considered a blessing, not a disgrace. Or does the Chantry dictate that mages are forbidden to love?”

“The Chantry advocates for pure, spiritual love, and not… this!”

“I’m sorry, Chancellor, but spiritual food does not satisfy everyone. I hope Maker isn’t greedy and is satisfied with the love of clergymen and revered sisters. Teenagers though prefer to love someone who could actually love them back.”

The Chancellor coughed, choking over the air. “Do you deny the love of the Maker?”

“Well, if he comes and offers it to me personally, I promise I’ll consider it,” shrugged Orsino. “But I still didn’t get what is it you want from me. We are mages, not clergymen; we’ve made no Chantry vows – and definitely no vows of chastity. What’s your point?”

“The debauchery of your charges is my point!”

“Please, dear Chancellor, where do you even see a debauchery? An orgy or a new partner every week may be a debauchery, but two teenagers in consensual relation is just youth and first love. Or do you deny these things?”

“Ha! Chancellor Whatever-Your-Name-Is, face it: even Knight Commander Meredith couldn’t score a point off Orsino, and she cut a more impressive figure then you!”

Chancellor jumped from surprise and turned around to see who was talking.

He was met with a vision of a true rogue or pirate: stranger’s face was framed in beard and two-days stubble. A Cheshire grin appeared on that face; the stranger promptly moved the Chancellor aside and held his arms out in obvious intention to hug First Enchanter.

“Orsino! Glad to see you still alive and kicking!”

“Well, I’m glad of the fact too,” smiled the elf. He had nowhere to run, so he had to endure the hug that was friendly, but very strong – like you were hugged by a Ferelden bear. “Though sometimes I regret it – grave, as I heard, is quiet and peaceful place. Unlike Skyhold. Good to see you again, Messere Hawke.”

Garret Hawke finally let go of the slightly crumpled enchanter and looked at him with pride and joy written all over his face. His expression looked like that of a father, proud of his son – and as the human was much younger then the elf, it looked weird.

“Not a day goes by that you have to work?” asked he with sympathy and turned to Roderick. “Chancellor, if you see a disorder, then put it to order, preferably all by yourself! There’s no point in arguing.”

“If Chancellor put this matter to order as he sees fit, it will be worse, I’m afraid: these two kids may imagine themselves Romeo and Juliet, walk away to the mountains and freeze to death there, hugging each other. All to prove us wrong,” noted Orsino. “Condoning love affairs is one thing, but treating them with reason is what we need. You can’t seriously give a Chant of Light to teenagers and hope they will become all spiritual, Chancellor. Everything should be in its own time.”

Roderick tsked, looked down on the enchanter and walked away with a barely polite nod to Hawke.

“Oh, thank you,” said Orsino with a grateful smile. “I’ve been trying to reason with him for ages! Unfortunately, Chancellor Roderick just doesn’t do understanding what he is said until he spills everything he himself has to say.”

“It sucks,” admitted Hawke. “By the way, may I use your help, First Enchanter? You are a person of intelligent and gentle air, so Cassandra, who I’ve heard a lot about, may feel bad about killing me or Varric in front of you. At least I hope so.”

Orsino seemed to ponder about it seriously.

“You may be right,” said he, and Hawke smiled. He proclaimed that his hide was still dear to him, so he’d have used every opportunity to save it. So, he took the enchanter by the arm and walked with him to the castle, chatting enthusiastically about the mutual acquaintances. And there were a lot of them: Cullen and Fenris were the obvious ones, but the Champion also knew many mages and templars from Kirkwall Circle. Hawke mentioned his warden friend and was astonished to learn that Loghain and Orsino knew each other.

“What’s so surprising about that?” asked him Orsino. “Teyrn Loghain is a well-known person. And he collects maps – the Circles, by the way, are the first places to search if you want something new to a collection like that. We had many interesting editions and documents back in Kirkwall. I, for example, have in my possession a really striking edition of ‘ _The art of cartography in ancient Nevarra_ ’ – I’ve lent it to teyrn once, so he could made himself a copy.”

“I hope, you are not thinking bad of him in the light of recent Blight?”

“Messere Hawke, I don’t even dare to ponder what people think of _me_ in the light of recent events… So I wouldn’t make this mistake with regard to the other person – not before I talk to him personally.”

“You, Orsino, are positively a marvel,” declared Hawke with passion. The elf looked at him perplexedly, but didn’t get a chance to answer – a loud argument burst out from the other end of the hall. The most angry and loud voice obviously belonged to Cassandra.

“Here it comes,” signed Garret. He winked to Orsino suddenly. “A-ah, help! Murder!” cried he as loud as he could – which was very, _very_ loud.

Silence held in the hall.

Everyone turned to the doors to see who was murdered and who needed help; Varric, the one most used to Hawke’s manner of dealing with problems, wriggled out from Cassandra’s grasp and ran towards the other end of the hall.

“Hawke!”

“Varric!” The Champion spread his arms again. “Glad to see you’re still alive!”

“Me too, me too,” laughed the dwarf, hugging him in return. “Thanks for coming over.”

“Well, we started it together – and we’ll see it to the end together, unless we die in the process,” answered Hawke. He let go of the dwarf, noticed the elf in lyrium tattoos and repeated the procedure.

“Fenris!”

The elf dodged his arms with ease and looked at Hawke, clearly asking: _Do you have a death wish_? He offered the human his hand instead – Hawke shook it enthusiastically.

“You bore! Orsino was more welcoming,” he couldn’t help complaining.

“It’s not like I was offered a choice,” noted the enchanter.

Fenris tightened his grip vindictively. Hawke winced and glared at the elf with insincere expression of hurt.

Hawke and Lavellan exchanged bows ceremoniously (a formal “Champion of Kirkwall” was met with a stiff “Herald of Andraste” after which they both laughed over the sheer stupidity of all this). Afterwards Garret turned to everyone else.

“Don’t be cross with Varric, please. It was I who asked him not to reveal my new home. I admit I wasn’t in a hurry to save the world yet another time, and for that I apologize. Well, in my defense, I’ve never thought the world is so feeble that it needs saving every couple of years. So, let’s get started!”

The tenseness in the air finally dissolved, as it always happened with Hawke – no one could stay angry with this good-natured bear. The folk finally got acquainted and started to discuss news and plans.

Fenris signed. Hawke brought with himself memories of home – and Kirkwall was a home to them, at least for a time. Not an ordinary one, not calm and safe and probably not even loved one, but it was home nevertheless. Until they’d lost it. Fenris wasn’t sure he’d ever wish to return - and what he’d find if he did. Did he even have a place in Kirkwall to return to?

“It’s bringing back memories, isn’t it?”

Fenris flinched, surprised, tore his gaze from Hawke’s tousled head and looked at First Enchanter. “Yes. It does.”

“Too many losses for one’s lifetime,” said the enchanter, insightful as ever. He absent-mindedly ran his hand over his side and frowned – looked like he’d left his pipe somewhere, most likely in the library.

“Indeed. Kirkwall, Haven – and I’s just for this year,” agreed Fenris.

“You tell me! You know what I really regret about? The chocolates I had to leave behind in Haven. Yours, I mean. The box was at least quarter full. It’s silly to regret a sweet treat when people’s lives are at stake, but that’s how it is…”

Fenris swore to himself that he’d bring the enchanter new chocolate as soon as he got to Orlais. Or whole five boxes of it. Though… The elf cursed his inability to understand simple social things. Was Orsino regretting leaving the chocolate behind because it was tasty or because it was from him, Fenris? Damn. How a person was supposed to understand it?

Fenris surely didn’t. So he opened his mouth to ask, but didn’t get the chance.

Grand Enchanter Fiona had never been this close to dying in some horrible fashion.


	12. Chapter 12

“You!” cried Fiona as she appeared in the doorway with her finger pointing at Hawke – as if no one could guess who she was addressing to. “You’ve fought for mages’ freedom! Why do you let this injustice continue then? Why you approve of us in chains?”

“Oh, Maker, not again,” mumbled Varric, turned and ran away for some fresh air. Some of the others rolled their eyes and also moved towards the hall exit: people grew allergic to words like _mages_ and _templars_ , and tried to put at least some distance between them and said words.

“And you are asking why I didn’t want to be found,” said Hawke to Cassandra in a low voice, and the woman cringed in sympathy; then he flashed his most carefree smile at the mage. “I have fought for the mages, yes. But I don’t see any chains on _you_ , fair lady.”

“We are shunned and despised here, Messere. Those chains are not visible, but they feel very real.”

“Maker! It may be cowardly, but can I leave too? I can’t stand yet another round of this,” said Orsino with a worn-out expression.

The Maker didn’t answer, but Hawke assumed his role with a bold ease.

“Of course! Please go and have some rest, Orsino, you look shot and killed! That wouldn’t do,” said he.

Fenris, who was standing near the door to Solas’ chambers and library stairs, moved sideways invitingly; the enchanter slipped through the doors, not stopping for a doubt, and Fenris stepped back to his original place. He leaned against the doorframe, pointedly blocking the passage and showing with his posture that if anyone wished to come after the enchanter – well, said anyone had it coming.

“Could you tell these people that Circles are the emanation of cruelty!” Fiona hustled the Champion.

“Circles are not all the same, madam,” answered Hawke tactfully.

Fiona froze on the spot with a look of a person who was just betrayed by the ones most dear to her. “You… Do you too believe I should be put on a leash?”

“I certainly do!” came the shout from the main doors. The one shouting was Cullen, who appeared to be late for Hawke’s welcoming (he did live rather far from the main hall) and was unfortunate enough to hear all this ridiculous conversation while he was climbing the main stairs. No, Cullen also didn’t approve of many things about the Circle (first of all he didn’t approve the idea of placing the mages in the place called the _Gallows_ – and the name suited the place without a doubt), but would these people ever tire of complaining?

“I’m fed up with you and your ‘Horrors of the Circles’ tales!” barked he. “I’ve lived in the Circle for many years! In the Circle that was considered the worst of all! Yes, it was hard sometimes, it was trying, even downright scary, but it was never really bad! And I know what really bad feels like!”

“You don’t know a thing! How can you?” snapped Fiona.

“Oh, really,” snorted Cullen. His body, yet again denied its usual portion of lyrium, was all sore and complaining, so the templar was in the mood to take it out on somebody. And Grand Enchanter looked like a volunteer to him.

“Hey, Commander!” greeted him Hawke and waved at him with enthusiasm. “How is your new life going?”

“Hello, Garret,” said Cullen. His anger cooled a bit. “I’m doing fine, I guess. Are you here to help?”

“Yeah,” grinned the Champion.

Grand Enchanter though didn’t like being interrupted. Like at all.

People tended to treat the former rebel mages with distrust. They treated templars the same, to be honest, but the knights reacted to it much calmer: the horrors of Therinfal were still fresh in their memory – unlike the mages, who walked away from Tevinter slavery prospect with a slap on the wrist. The mages had no chivalric code, didn’t care about trivial things like honor and quarreled almost professionally – imagine all this, and you’d get a slight idea how sick and tired people were of mages.

Fiona’s situation was the worst of sorts. Her title, however fancy, was worth nothing here in Skyhold: lady Vivien outshined her with ease, and Kirkwall Circle had no regard for her. But Skyhold commanding officers preferred to discuss everything with Orsino or Vivien, even Dorian, but not Fiona.

It wasn’t a surprise that the mage finally had enough.

Though it was still unpleasant as hell.

“We don’t even know who to come to for help!” cried Fiona. “We are shunned and despised; but we can’t stop being mages! We can’t change who we are. It’s cruel to hate people for things they can’t change.”

“I’ll tell you who you are! You are but a bunch of smatterers who can only moan and complain!” barked Cullen. The anger came back to him in a wave.

“Who are you to judge me?” parred the enchantress spitefully. “I will not be lectured by a templar who has nearly slaughtered his Circle!”

“We’ve never slaughtered anyone! It was the apostate who blew up the Chantry!”

“And why did he do it – have you ever asked yourself about it? Maybe it was you who drove him to madness by making Tranquil the one he loved?”

“Oh really? That’s what all this shouting is about!” roared Cullen. He moved aside Hawke who tried to calm him down – Cullen was well built, just like the Champion himself, so he could perform such a feat. “Yes, let’s all be sympathetic with the two idiots who couldn’t live without each other a single day – a day when the supervisors from White Spire came! They were in love, that excuses everything! Have they thought about the two girls who were passing their letters? No, they haven’t! These silly romantic girls were nearly made Tranquil too! Both Orsino and Meredith squared off with the supervisors for them – and succeeded! The girls were just reprimanded. But has anyone thanked Knight Commander for that? No! Has anyone thought about Orsino, who had to choose who to sacrifice when it became clear that the supervisors wouldn’t back off? He had twice as much gray hair since that day! But no, we must all sympathize with two idiots who’ve never thought about anyone but themselves!”

Hawke winced. “Oh. We didn’t know that. That’s making it worse. Sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid, it wasn’t your fault,” dismissed him Cullen. Then he turned back to Fiona. “And you – you go bother someone else with your ridiculous moaning!”

Fenris smirked at Fiona who turned up her nose at them and walked away, proud as an empress – but there was some fault in her posture, like this dignity was just a façade, even if a good one. Well, Sir Cullen certainly could make an impression if he wanted – with his gentle manners it was easy to forget that Commander was from Ferelden, just like Hawke, and had the same physique of a bear.

“I can’t even begin to explain how fed up I’m with them,” said Cullen after taking a few deep breaths. “They talk like there never was anything good about the Circle. But there was! There were apple trees at the back garden, where we used to pick apples in summer, and made jam and cider in autumn … Elzbieta made a delicious apple liqueur, we all queued to get some. There were lessons under the open sky, chess in the evenings, spinning tales at the bonfire. We templars are not monsters, you know – we used to help each other. When the seawall was breached, no one cared about being a mage or a templar, we all carried sandbags and logs together. Once, I remember, a supplier mixed up something and brought us a ton of sugar, if not more, and our Intendant refused to give it back – it all was turned out, she said to him. Orsino with other mages was brewing molasses for three days strait to make it true. What a luxurious year it was – we were eating treacle pies and other molasses pastry to our heart content. Sir Gimeon even asked his sister to make some toffies, and they were delicious – we gave the mages their share, of course. We all lived together: yes, there were rules, restrictions, we all had them, but otherwise it was good. It wasn’t a slavery! All bad things have always started with some of them idiots making another half-assed plan for gaining freedom! They sit there like crows, always moaning that they are cold, bored, and misunderstood. They really should try some working or studying. No one who listened to First Enchanter demonology lectures ever failed his Harrowing – _no one_! All our problems have always come from self-obsessed idiots who believed they know better!”

Hawke patted Commander on the shoulder. “Yeah, I know. Bethany told me a lot of things about your Circle and its, well, unique traits. Is it always so lively here, by the way?”

“It is,” answered Fenris.

“Crap,” said Hawke, effectively summarizing the whole situation. “Let’s go check First Enchanter, if no one minds. He looks thinner then he was back in Kirkwall, and that is telling!”

People, tired of pushing it, broke up and went for their own business; Cassandra, Varric and Inquisitor stayed, but continued their discussion on a normal voice level. Garret, Cullen and Fenris left for First Enchanter’s chambers: they went through Solas’ rotunda (“Holy cats! Elven rock painting,” said Hawke with an appreciative whistle) and Dorian’s alcove (“Hell, a living and breathing Tevinter magister! Fenris, are you feeling OK?”) and researchers’ room. Orsino’s lair was at the other end of the library – there was a big hall for books and readers, and also two small rooms, where the enchanter made himself a study and a bedroom. There, of course, were a lot of books; there were also chairs, a sofa (comfy, but a bit short) and a fireplace. Orsino was sitting on the sofa, and a smoke from his pipe was curling around him. The room smelled of dusty books, chocolate and tobacco; Fenris snuffed suspiciously and smelled a hint of sharp anise.

Garret smelled it too.

“Orsino!” cried he happily, as if they’d met for a first time in many years. “Could we sample some of your composing drug too?”

“Check the cupboard. Upper shelf, third bottle to the right,” said the enchanter.

Hawke enthusiastically dived into the said cupboard. Soon they settled down on the chairs and sampled some kind of beverage – crystal clean liquid with a sharp smell.

“Oh-oh! That’s the real stuff,” said Hawke with a shiver, blinking away tears. “Your hidden talents, Orsino, never fail to astonish me.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one,” agreed Cullen. “Though I like the black current version better – it was easier to swallow.”

“I can’t get hold on black current leaves here, I’m afraid. The only things Adan could get were anise and licorice,” shrugged the enchanter.

“And it came out splendidly!” cried Hawke happily. “Another round?”

Orsino smiled at last and got himself a cup (there was no glasses for liquor in Skyhold – looked like people were too shy to tell the Intendant that these utensils were urgently needed). After three shots the mood in the room changed to a relaxed and friendly one.

“As I’ve gathered, the mages are still blabbering about justice?” asked Hawke. He was blushing – whatever this liquor was, it was strong as hell.

“Justice, injustice – what’s the difference?” grumbled Orsino. “Have you ever seen a just society? No, because that’s a myth! There will always be nobles, who are unworthy of their title, kings whose only deed for the sake of their country was to die finally, civil servants who think about themselves too much… It’s called human factor.”

“Only human?”

“Don’t act silly, you understood perfectly what I mean. We are all very different – in more ways then just elf, dwarf or human, and one system will never be enough. There will always be displeased, unworthy and oppressed people. Society is made by mortals, not by gods, maybe that’s why it never will be perfect. The issue of the Circles lies in its closeness; everything looks better outside a wall.”

“And even now this society can’t finally open its eyes and look around,” added Cullen and downed his cup. “They hold their fantasies too dear.”

Fenris poured another round. The first bottle was finished already, but Orsino, enchanter as he was, produced a new one out of nowhere. The liquor was indeed good: it didn’t fiddle with your brain, but seemed to wash away anger and irritation, put all bad feelings to sleep in your stomach and warm your heart, as if someone was caressing it gently.

Oh. Well, maybe it did fiddle with brains after all.

Orsino and Cullen though were still damn sober. The enchanter even managed to talk long and fascinating phrases. Hawke couldn’t help but address it.

“You two are pretty good in holding your liquor. And I thought before that you Circle habitants were all delicate violets who drop dead drunk after sniffing your first glass.”

“Only the young ones are like that,” smiled the enchanter and puffed a cloud of smoke – he’d taken his pipe again. “All those who are older and responsible for something, on the other hand, are experienced alcoholics…”

“Yes, you definitely are,” smiled Cullen. “I still can’t believe how much you and Meredith both glugged that day!”

“We had a good cause,” answered the enchanter with dignity and smiled too. “That’s rich coming from you, Commander. It was you and your friends who downed an entire keg of rum! For a dare!”

“Do tell!” cried Garret in surprise.

“Well, that’s true,” admitted Cullen with a short laugh. “That day those damn supervisors from White Spire came again – our Circle was to be checked every month, being the most dubious one. And these checks were the real source of many our troubles. So, Knight Lieutenant managed to smuggle to the Gallows a ked of rum – a real Antivian rum, - and they said that next day the supervisors were coming. Where could he hide the keg? There was no way he’d pour it away. As for hiding, the only way he could hide it was by drinking it. So, he invited me and some other lads, both mages and templars, ad we started to think: how many people do we need?”

“And the dare was?”

“That the six of us were enough to down the whole keg.”

“And were you?”

“I don’t remember really,” said Cullen, making others to laugh. “I don’t remember much of the said inspection either…”

Both Ferelden bears howled with laughter. Orsino joined them with his soft laugh, as did Fenris – he gave out a light chuckle.

“Heh,” signed Hawke dreamily afterwards. “See, we can live in peace and friendship! Why others can’t?”

“They think too much about things they’d better not think at all. Thinking is a tricky process,” said the enchanter. “Don’t worry, I’ll find them something to occupy their time. As they say, a true skill never fades away – even if you wash it with drinks.”

“A fine toast!” exclaimed Hawke and raised his cup.


	13. Chapter 13

Late in the evening Fenris decided to pay a visit to his own rooms at the tavern, the _Herald's Rest_. He stepped on the stairs that led out of the castle and sniffed the air suspiciously. He caught a very familiar, but nearly forgotten smell of chicken broth, thyme and cherry. Where Tevinter cuisine mostly smelled of honey, garlic and ginger, Ferelden dishes usually had a plain smell with hints of cumin and coriander - and Free Marches cuisine had an aroma of thyme mixed with cherry.

The Grumpy Elf felt a distinctive pang of nostalgy and decided to see who actually occupied the kitchen today.

It was Elana. Of course.

A pint-sized elven woman, not young, but aged beautifully and wearing a long, thick braid of wheat-colored hair. She wasn’t a blood mage, but people usually were scared of her shitless nevertheless. Fenris knew about her: the mage had a rare gift for weaving curses, and no Circle wanted to deal with a person who could put a unique unbreakable curse at you by mistake or as a dispute argument. So, Elana moved to Kirkwall Circle, where people were used to scary and dangerous things.

Fenris smirked as he saw the mage stirring whatever was cooking in the big pot.

“Grown tired of local cuisine, as I see?”

The elven woman looked at him and smiled cheerfully. “Exactly. They don’t know how to cook a proper chicken soup here. I’m fed up with the watery brew they pass off as a soup.”

Fenris snorted mockingly. Yes, chicken soup was different wherever you went. In Tevinter they served a noodle soup, colored by turmeric and spiced with herbs; in Ferelden it was chicken broth with potatoes and onions. But in Free Marches – oh yes, in Free Marches they cooked a marvelous soup, rich and thick, with plenty of chicken meat, carrots and celery, with thyme and cherry and - what was the best thing - with dill dumplings.

“Need any help?” offered Fenris. He wasn’t picky, not really, but the Ferelden version didn’t feel right with him.

Elana smiled kindly and gave him a bunch of dill to chop.

The next who showed up in the doors was Varric. “Oh, the aroma of home! Lady, is there something I can do to earn my right to join your luxurious feast?”

The elven mage chuckled and passed the dwarf her knife, granting him a task of chopping carrots. She then turned to the dumplings batter.

Later it seemed that everyone from Kirkwall gathered at the kitchen at some stage, mages and templars alike, offering help. Hawke came too, and Cullen – there wasn’t any work left for them to do, but they were still promised a full bowl.

The giant pot was eaten in a blink, right here in the kitchen, not bothering to go to the dining hall. They laughed and chatted amicably (well, not Fenris, of course, but he also somehow blended in), savouring the rich taste of the too hot soup (it burned the tongue, but no one was willing to wait) and counting jealously the others’ dumplings in the bowls. Fenris blew on his spoon full of soup, watching Orsino talking cheerfully to Elana and all the other people, happy and pleased; there was something in Kirkwall, he thought, something that made people want to stick together. Here, no matter how odd the company was (well, he’d never thought he’d end up with a company like that), he felt like he belonged. Unlike the feeling Skyhold gave him, though Fenris was proficient in ignoring things he didn’t like (together with things that irritated, disgusted, angered, enraged, maddened him, pissed him off and so on – well, you got the idea).

Inquisitor popped in the kitchen and froze on the spot. Here, at the big and crowded kitchen table, mages and templars were sitting peacefully: the Champion was talking amicably with some mage, Commander was arguing furiously with two templars… The Grumpy Elf, who sat near a blonde mage, looked quite content (as burning the mage with his gaze or at least stabbing her with a fork was more like Fenris she knew). He was watching First Enchanter, as always; and Varric was watching him, chatting and chuckling with his neighbor – a tall dark mage – at the same time. The kitchen air smelled of some rich savory food, enough to make Rian’s mouth water.

She gave a hum of appreciation and stepped out. It felt like another person might ruin it, whatever it was. And why can’t others behave like people from Kirkwall?

…

As for finding the mages something to occupy their time, First Enchanter stand to his promise.

“What do you know of demons?” asked he in a clear voice of professional lector.

The lecture, that promised to enlighten the young mages, took place outside the castle, in the yard: part of it was enclosed, forming a perfect circle on the ground with its outlines buzzing and glowing lyrium blue. The mages, mostly young or barely of age, gathered in a small crowd in front of Orsino, who was standing near the enclosed area. Other interested people (namely the whole lot of Skyhold) watched from a distance.

Even lady Vivien stepped out at her balcony and Solas appeared at the side doors. Well, they were all promised something interesting, and Orsino was known as the best lecturer on demonology.

“They are oft-malicious spirits from the Fade,” said one girl, pulling a brave face.

Orsino nodded to her in encouragement, and other pupils grew braver too.

“They are but the first children of the Maker, who became envious of the living. They could not experience what the living had, and this blackest envy gave rise to the demons,” said a boy, who was clutching his fire staff like a demon could emerge any minute and take it away from him.

“They are the most dangerous and deadly dwellers of the Fade, who want to invade the real world,” said his neighbor.

“And to possess a mage,” added a very young boy, shivering.

“Demons are our enemies,” proclaimed a mage who was a bit older.

Orsino listened to everyone’s answers in silence, only nodding sometimes, as if in a deep thought. “I see, everyone knows the Chant of Light very well,” stated he afterwards. “You are all right, of course. You cite from very reputable sources, and point out exactly how the Chantry sees the demons – so many respectable people can’t be wrong, right? But we – we are not the clergymen. We are mages. So, I’d like to show you something. Please, don’t step inside the circle no matter what you see. Commander Cullen knows what to do if something goes wrong, and I trust him completely; I ask again, do not intervene, please. Well, let’s get started.”

Orsino took off his boots and stepped on the cold ground, barefoot. Today was a cool, windy day, but the enchanter’s clothes looked like he was preparing to spend his day in a hot desert: his plain tunic was too light even for a hardened warrior like Fenris, and he was a frail mage! The Grumpy Elf, who was watching the lecture from the castle wall, knit his brows gloomily: he should really talk to the enchanter about common sense and the importance of caring about one’s health.

Orsino stepped inside the enclosed area. The lyrium buzz became louder, and the outlining turned into a full veil, clear but strong, effectively cutting the mage from the others. The elf took off the ribbon that was holding his hair in a ponytail, and tied it in a blindfold; his mane, copper red with rare flaming red strands and a lot of silver, spilled over his shoulders (Fenris – and, as he guessed, a few others – caught his breath).

First Enchanter took a place exactly in the center of the enclosure and stood here. At first it looked like nothing was going on, but then the strange sounds appeared – they were like disjointed chords, as if someone was trying to make the right music out of them, but couldn’t. It was Orsino’s doing, no doubt: he was turning his head blindly to where the sounds were coming from and was waving his hands and gesturing to make the sounds louder or quieter, changing their tune.

At one moment the demons started to appear.

People startled and shrank back from the enclosure.

The Despair demon appeared first with a feeble, disgusting whistle. A huge Rage gathered itself from the ground and impended over the enchanter menacingly – but Orsino didn’t even bat an eyelid (partly because of the blindfold). Fenris threw a worried glance at Cullen – Commander looked tense, but he wasn’t in a hurry to interfere in whatever was going on.

The Rage opened his mouth wide, showing molten lava teeth, and closed it back. It stepped away from the enchanter, who was still busy with… whatever he was doing, and started to circle around him. Other demons joined. They were exactly like their pictures in old books – Desire, Sloth, Envy… And more: some demons looked strange and unfamiliar. One, who appeared along with the first ones, looked like a burlesque knight, weary and sorrowful: he watched the Despair with stern disapproval and tried to stay away from it. The demons circled in the enclosure like predators, but they still hadn’t touched the mage who was right there.

Suddenly Orsino raised his head, and they all could see his wide, mischievous smile.

He made a strange gesture, and the disjointed chords finally clicked together, and there was music – it sprang to life, unfolding and deepening, and the whole place started to vibrate with unfamiliar energy. Demons, as if the music was guiding them, changed the rhyme of their circling – as if they were trying to… dance?

Orsino too started to move.

He danced. It was a fascinating, but strange dance – it could be an Orlaisian waltz or Avvar tribal fling. It was all this and at the same time completely different, new and also familiar, like something you forgot you always knew. It was touching your soul in a way you couldn’t describe apart from… beautiful.

The demons started to change. Somehow, without appearing to do so, they changed their shapes and became more like transparent, blurry humans; they were really dancing now, with abandon and in unison, being led by Orsino. It was a beautiful, magnificent picture. Everyone’s eyes were upon it – no one could look away, when here, inside the enclosure, was something so glorious. It was like a harmony itself was dancing here.

Harmony, Yes, that’s what it was.

The dance didn’t last though: the final chords came, the dancers performed their last steps and vanished in the firework of sparks – all but Orsino, who just stopped, breathing heavily.

He peeled off his blindfold and gathered his hair back in a ponytail; afterwards he calmly walked away from the enclosure (the lyrium barrier buzzed loudly and lowered back on the ground).

“So… Remind me, what do you know about demons?” asked Orsino again.

A dumbstruck silence was his answer.

The enchanter smiled warmly and looked over the yard, at the stunned people. It was very clear that whatever they thought to see or hear at the lecture, it certainly wasn’t _that_.

“You’ve just witnessed a ritual called _A Demon Round Dance_. It was invented by the hermits of Alamar island: they studied the Fade and its dwellers, performed a lot of experiments and wrote many interesting books, most of which, unfortunately, were burned when the hermits were declared heretics and wiped from Thedas completely. Some bits and pieces of their knowledge, however, were preserved – this ritual, for example, that contradicts all we know about demons so far. It is, as most mages might understand it, completely pointless for both parties: there is nothing to gain neither for mages nor for demons. But for some reason demons always come to dance with the mage who he calls them.”

The enchanter leaned forward, and people followed his movement with their eyes with acute fascination. “You see,” continued he. “Demons and we don’t understand each other. At all. But we do have some common ground. For now dancing is the only safe way of communication with the Fade dwellers, flawed – because we ourselves don’t understand properly the language of the dance – crude and nearly useless. Maybe you’ll become the great scholars one day and discover a proper way to communicate with demons – and maybe even find what they really need from us. But enough for now. Those who are interested in demonology please come to Elana to sign up. The lessons will take place every day at nine a.m. in the library, at the southern wing.”

Young mages followed the enchanter with their eyes full of pure admiration; the intent of becoming the best demonologists was clearly written on their faces. As Orsino began to dismantle the lyrium enclosure, his future pupils were discussing the most fascinating theme: namely, how long would it take them to learn to dance like that?

People in the yard started to fade away to their places. Only the Advisers and Inquisitor with her companions stayed – they came closer to the former barrier.

“Your boots”, reminded Fenris, glancing pointedly at the bare feet of the enchanter and frowning.

“Oh,” said Orsino, embarrassed. “Yes, thank you, I forgot.”

The enchanter’s eyes glistened with excitement, his cheeks blushed a bit. It wasn’t surprising – not after the dance they’d witnessed, - but the flu afterwards wouldn’t come as a surprise too. Cullen clearly thought the same, as he took off his fluffy cloak and threw it over Orsino’s shoulders as the mage put on his boots. His frail figure disappeared in the cloak like a needle thrown in the fur.

“Commander,” said Orsino reproachfully.

“Come on, Orsino,” Cullen brushed aside his reproach. “We’ve known each other for years! It’s better to walk in my coat now then to fall ill afterwards.”

First Enchanter smiled gratefully and left for his rooms, accompanied by Commander. No one interfered, though there were a lot of questions they wanted to ask the enchanter, starting right with “What the hell was that?”

It was clear as day that everyone wanted a peek at the promised lessons.

“Do talk to him at last,” said Solas suddenly.

To Fenris.

The elves did not talk usually, at least to each other. Fenris pretended that the strange elven apostate is some kind of furnishings, safe and unimportant – no reason to pay attention to it. Solas returned the favor, not wanting to make the former slave angry – and he did admit that this certain elf wasn’t exactly the shame and disgrace to elven face (even considering his bad temper). This silent agreement was in force till this very moment.

Fenris glared angrily at the other elf.

Solas didn’t notice it – he was looking thoughtfully at the enchanter’s back with absolutely unreadable – and very strange – expression.

“Why you care?” growled out the Grumpy Elf. He didn’t like that everyone seemed to know about him and First Enchanter. Not to mention that there wasn’t _anything_ to know there, and _that_ was really infuriating.

“We all want to be loved,” said the strange mage softly. “But some of us _need_ it.”

…

Lavellan decided to come and see Orsino afterwards.

She wanted to talk to someone sane before leaving for some insane quest yet again. Or at least to chat with someone nice, as sanity became rare as a miracle nowadays. Talking to First Enchanter proved interesting every time: he, just like Solas, always had a story to tell or at least some tall tale to relate.

Though she should have thought about it better. The timing was wrong – Orsino was trying to warm himself up after the _lecture_. The fireplace was lit, the room was warm, and the enchanter was sitting on the sofa: in front of him there was a basin on the floor, filled with steaming water – the best thing to quickly warm up your cold feet.

Rian was going to apologize and leave, but froze on the doorstep.

It was very strange.

First Enchanter was wearing a tunic, short pants and rugs wrapped around his slim frame; without his boots it was clear that the skin of his legs changed colour, starting from the knees. Where it was white as milk at first, it turnet to a colour of baked milk with a shade of gray. His calves and ankles were also covered in some odd dots, that looked like old scars; the number of dots grew more closer to the feet and soles.

She hadn’t noticed this before. Well, the dance and demons were the hell of a distraction.

“What’s that?” asked she.

Orsino looked at her with a smile and patted on the sofa, inviting her to sit near him. Lavellan took the invitation and settled on the offered place.

“I don’t think the view of an elder elf without his boots will be too shocking to you, so please come in. Do you want to ask something? And as for these… these are needle marks. When soft tissues are too damaged by freezing or burning, but the bones are intact, it is still possible to cure the patient: the damaged tissue is shaved away, the needles are inserted in the joints, tendons and future muscle link points, and the tissue is regrown. It is a long, painful and complicated procedure, but it’s better then losing an arm or a leg.”

“That’s awful!” cried Lavellan and shivered. “But what happened to you?”

“No offence to you, dear Rian, but I have to admit that I really don’t like the Dalish,” said Orsino. “And my dislike is very personal. I was born in a Dalish clan. But when I turned eleven, they found out that I had magic. There was no need for yet another mage in the clan, so they gave me a piece of cured meat and told me to get lost. It was winter then.”

Lavellan shivered from the simple horror of the story. She imagined a small child in the woods, alone around snow and trees, desperate and lost. Her clan had never done things like that… at least she hoped so.

“Don’t be sad, child,” said Orsino softly and put a calming hand on her shoulder. “Things like that happen rarely. The Dalish usually try to leave children near towns and villages, or at least near the other clans, if they actually decide to leave them. It was a long time ago, and I don’t remember clearly why they did that to me. But I got lucky – I managed to get to Ansburg, where was a Circle. They accepted me, healed me and took as one of their own.”

“So that’s why you hate the cold,” mused she.

First Enchanter frowned. “Cullen told you, didn’t he? I should have guessed that the library is heated so well because of his order and not because it was built so well.”

Lavellan only smiled. “He just doesn’t want you to risk your life again – this time because of the cold.”

“Yes, your Commander haven’t left me a single chance to die under his command… But yes, you are right. I can’t tolerate cold weather as good as an elf should after that walk in the snowy woods. And I don’t like when it is cold. Getting used to the shoes, by the way, is not so hard.”

They sit for a moment in amicable silence. Rian finally decided to ask question she was very interested in since Redcliff. “How did you come to be the First Enchanter in Kirkwall?”

“The head of the Circle of maleficars, you mean?” laughed the mage.

 Lavellan gave him an embarrassed smile, and the enchanter snorted amusedly.

“Very well, I’ll tell you the story… Just give me my pipe, dear, if you’ll be so kind – it’s on the shelf above the fireplace. I’d get it myself, but I don’t want to leave wet marks on the carpet.”

Rian got up and took the said pipe – it was thin and long, nearly weightless and without any ornament. The pipe chamber was made of wood – it gleamed, polished by the touches of fingers, and the draught hole was black from burned tobacco residue. The mouthpiece was too long for such a small chamber and had a number of biting marks.

Lavellan offered the enchanter his pipe as if she was giving him a sword – holding it with two hands. Orsino accepted it with a smile. He drew a puff of fragrant smoke from the pipe, sit back at the sofa and closed his eyes a bit as he dwelled on his memories.

“I started to teach very early. I was given my first lecture course – the nature of magic fire, I remember it well even now – when I was barely twenty. And I was always eager to learn myself – as my mentor liked to say, I was curious as hell. And lucky too – my mentor was knowledgeable and all in all very good person. But as one day former First Enchanter of Kirkwall died because of some experiment failure, and there wasn’t any queue of those who wished to take his place, and maleficars can’t be elected as First Enchanters… After a window of incoherence our Circle offered me to the post, and everyone quickly agreed to it.”

“But why you?”

“Well, my mentor, as good person as he was, wasn’t exactly liked in Ansburg. Senior Enchanter Maxwell was too powerful to press, but me – they could push me as they liked, I was just an ordinary enchanter. Maxwell was against my appointment, but he couldn’t do anything, though he did try. I was terrified and exited at the same time: of course, I got a promotion, I was going to see a new place, to meet new people, to study new things! So I came… and ended up with two dozens of maleficars, a bunch of nervous templars, a lot of volatile teenagers and the whole other merry lot – and none of them was ready to believe a single word I said.”

‘What a mess!” cried Lavellan and giggled. The mage smiled too – his trials and tribulations looked pretty funny now, when they were long passed. Now they made a good story.

“Exactly! I cried myself to sleep for a week then. And the one who helped me was Knight Commander Decemvir. He himself was from Tevinter: he showed me that no matter what everyone thinks, First Enchanter and Knight Commander always go hand-in-hand. It’s the backbone of every Circle.”

The enchanter puffed a cloud of smoke thoughtfully. Smoking suited him, to be honest, though the picture was still very much bizarre. Orsino noticed the look Lavellan was giving him and smiled.

“What?”

“Nothing, really,” said she. “I just can’t get used to the thought that you smoke. Where did you even get this pipe?”

“This one was carved by Richard, while we stayed in Wildervale. My old pipe, a real one imported from Orzammar, perished in the explosion. And it was a present from Meredith. She told me once that I was sitting in a hot seat for too long and I really needed to develop some bad habit to mellow out a bit. She even promised to provide me with a supply of tobacco till the end of my days – only if I continued to burn tobacco instead of my nerves.”

“So Meredith and you actually…”

“Were at the same page? Of course we were!” said Orsino. His face expression darkened. “A good leader should never show others that every problem of theirs could be solved by having a cup of tea with the Commander. Easy come, easy go. Meredith and I were a good team. She did have a mean streak and could be hard to be around, she liked to argue and swear – to be honest, I like a good quarrel too. You know, she hid herself in my rooms many times, avoiding her lieutenants… I skulked behind her too, when it became too much. She was a true friend. Once the Viscount’s son told her that she’d developed some gray hair – don’t laugh! He was a nice lad, though not a smart or a tactful one. So, I had to feed her my whole stash of black currant liqueur to cheer her up, telling her that I, for example, already had enough gray hair, and there was nothing bad about that… Well, that’s what I began with. That day we both drank ourselves to death, and Cullen had to leap into the breach, as we really were in no state to work… Image the words he used to express his opinion of us!”

Lavellan couldn’t keep giggling any more and laughed for real.

“And who said Circles were dull?” said she, blinking away tears.

“Dull? With so many people cooped in a confined space? Never! There was always something going on. And White Spire liked to send some templar recruits to us – to see a living, breathing maleficars. To know your enemy, as they said. An ugly affair, if you ask me. Once a new bunch of such recruits came, accompanied by Commander Caysee – Meredith hated his guts and always tried to avoid him. She sneaked to me to throw back a shot – you know, there are some people you just can’t deal with when sober, and Caysee was a prime example. And suddenly this Caysee burst into my rooms! Without any warning, and with two recruits in tow. “What are you doing?” asked he right away. “We’re having tea,” I blurted out on a whim. Well, I did manage to hide the shots, but not to take out the cups, and the teapot was clear in the view – empty, unfortunately. So this Caysee opened the pot lid blatantly, like he caught us tripping. “And you’ve eaten the tealeaves too, I see,” he said. “Of course,” said Meredith. “You mean, you don’t chew your tealeaves after brewing?” You should have heard it! She said this nonsense with a calm conviction, like she was really accusing him: how could a person not eat the tealeaves too?”

Lavellan howled with laughter as she imagined a knight’s face expression. What an absurd situation!

Orsino smiled too, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault, and you know it,” said Rian as she noticed it.

“Of course it was. But does it even matter?” signed the enchanter. “Nothing could bring them all back. Oh, I’ve completely forgotten – you came here to talk about something, right?”

“Not really. I wanted just to talk,” said Rian. “With someone nice. I have to go now… Will you tell me sometime about this Round Dance with demons?”

“I will,” nodded the enchanter.


	14. Chapter 14

Of course, Fiona didn’t get over herself so easy.

Rumours began to ooze out in the castle – rumours about demons attracted by blood mages. As they said, blood mages lived with demons (“Live with demons, dine with demons… and sleep with demons too, it seems,” grumbled Varric, who was annoyed to death with this shit; he admitted that he started to seriously consider moving his table from the main hall to somewhere more peaceful – in the cellar, for example, where he could immure himself and enjoy some peace and quiet) and confer with them on every occasion. The rumours didn’t produce much of an effect – the audience liked Orsino’s dance better – but they did spoil the mood.

Lavellan asked Cullen if there was even a tiny bit of truth in these rumours. Solas and Cassandra approached Cullen together with her – as a moral support, though they were interested in the reply too.

Cullen only snorted.

“Don’t let these idiots give you a long song and dance,” he said. “Because the real issue is about something else entirely. If you must know, every Circle has a demon, not only the Kirkwall one.”

“What?” cried both Rian and Cassandra. Solas only smiled musingly.

“Ha! What did you think Circles are about?” huffed Cullen. “The Veil is always thin there, and the mages need a strong ally on the other side - they don’t need to wage constant war against the demons after all. And they need weak demons for the Harrowings regularly – who do you think is rifling around the Fade for them? First Enchanter?”

“Creators! Is there any end to the shocking revelations about the Circles!” cried Lavellan with her hands upraised to heaven (well, to the ceiling, actually).

Cullen snorted again. “You know, in Kinloch Hold there was a Sloth. Uldred was tending to it, and it didn’t end well… It was our fault, as well as Senior Enchanters and Irving’s – you can’t drop all demon duties on one person and hope it will be OK. And in Kirkwall a very odd demon lived – I’m not sure a demon of what he actually was. Jester, that’s how Orsino used to call him. I’ve even saw him a few times myself – he was a very… sociable demon, liked to pry into everyone’s affairs. As a true Jester, he liked mischief, from quite harmless to a really wicked one – as Orsino said, he just didn’t see the difference. I’d like to know what became of him, to be honest.”

“Jester, you say?” asked Solas. As Cullen nodded him in reply, the mage smiled broadly. “I’ve met a spirit here recently, and it introduced itself as a jester. That was your demon, I presume.”

…

Fenris felt restless.

Solas’ odd words set afloat his anxiety that lay dormant before; he was tormented by something he couldn’t neither name nor understand. Fenris started to wander aimlessly around Skyhold more often and at odd times: he was mulling over and muse about what was said and done, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t find the right answer. It felt like someone put his life on hold, and he didn’t know how to switch it on again.

Any _normal_ person would know what to do! Fenris suspected that normal person wouldn’t even notice the problem and brush aside all his worries. But the elf could not do so.

He couldn’t explain what he actually wanted. He knew what he DIDN’T want: half a year of thinking First Enchanter was dead was a nightmare he never wanted to repeat. But what comes next, after your feelings are reciprocated (or not – and he didn’t want to go there)? These stories are supposed to end with “happily ever after”, but what does it mean? How people know what they are supposed to do to make this… happily ever after?

Issues and questions seemed to multiply with every new thought in this direction; Fenris wasn’t sure he was even equipped to think about such things, but Solas’ words kept nagging at him. There was only one thing that scared him more – that there was actually nothing to think about.

…

The lectures were a great success.

Fiona and some other senior Enchanters were rather skeptical – they seemed to disapprove of everything the head of maleficar Circle had to say. But there was nothing they could do: other mages were exited about the new ideas. All they could speak of was Orsino with his unconventional approach to studying demons. And it was good, because the mages finally found a subject to talk about that wasn’t injustice or freedom, so they stopped quarrelling so much with each other and with the templars. There was another benefit from studying– many mages admitted that resisting temptation of demonic power was getting easier.

Solas attended lectures too and even participated sometimes – he filled up Orsino’s lectures with his stories. It seemed that the elven apostate had found if not a soulmate, but a kindred spirit in First Enchanter, and he set his sights on the idea of bringing up a new generation of mages – mages with less negative views on the Fade. Dorian also liked to grace the lectures with his presence and enjoyed talking with the enchanter afterwards – he hanged around for hours, discussing the demonology and sharing with scientific advances of Tevinter. At least in Tevinter Empire no one was afraid of studying demons, though not many people wanted to – Magisters often tended to skip the studying part and start right with the bloody sacrifices.

 Once the mages spoke with each other for three hours straight – it was nearing midnight, but the discussion was too interesting. And the First Enchanter’s rooms were warm and cozy, even if deprived of luxury Dorian was used to. There was a fireplace, a lot of books, a tea table with unexpectedly comfortable chairs and a cozy sofa; the air smelled of chocolate with the harsh hint of tobacco. It was just like it was in Kirkwall or in Haven, and it was easy to imagine that nothing bad had happened: they just moved peacefully to Skyhold – just because they wanted to.

Midnight had passed; Solas left for his own chamber to sleep and wander in the Fade. Tevinter mage, though, was in no hurry. The wine was delicious, the room in the candle light looked so nice, and the new ideas were oh so tempting… Why didn’t they chat about it before? Who would have thought that the energy conservation principle did work in the Fade, with appropriate correction, of course? One had to admit, Free Marches did take their science seriously. So, about this correction…

But Dorian was broken off midword. He was taken by a strong hand, like a cat by the scruff of its neck. This hand, as he found out soon, belonged to a really pissed off Fenris.

The elf’s lyrium markings pulsed erratically – this usually meant that he was seriously peeved and nearly brought to the boil.

Fenris didn’t pay attention neither to mewling Dorian nor to startled Orsino; he just dragged the mage out of the table with authority, took him to the doors and threw him out offhandedly. Afterwards he neatly closed the doors and turned to First Enchanter, who got up from his chair.

“Fenris? Are you all right?” asked the enchanter, knitting his brows in a worry.

Nearly brought to the boil, you say? He was surely boiling now.

What kind of person does that? Why didn’t he say something more ordinary, like ‘Fenris, what on earth have you done?’, or something logical and understandable, like ‘Fenris, what the hell are you doing there?’, or anything else? Why this… world’s best person first off was worried that something had happened to him, Fenris? He was going offer his help next, you’ll see!

Orsino opened his mouth – his eyes were full of worry and sympathy, and it was obvious he was really going to offer his help.

“He was flirting with you. Didn’t you see?” asked Fenris coldly. Actually, people flirting with First Enchanter seemed to him everywhere, but Dorian annoyed him the most.

The mage closed his mouth and stared at the elf, puzzled.

“Did he?” asked Orsino with sincere surprise and signed. “Well, that’s… awkward,” added he.

Fenris, on the contrary, thought that it was all right. Without the nosy magister it was clearly better than with him. But his thoughts and feelings were cooped inside for too long, and he… he lost it.

“It’s not only him! Half of Skyhold looks at you this way! Don’t you see? Do you even know what an impression you make? You are the most learned enchanter among all mages! The best lecturer! The best person of us all!” Fenris was spitting all the words that were boiling inside; he was coming closer, trapping the other elf at the wall. “You are too smart, too clever… too noble… Don’t you see what are you doing to me? Don’t you see that I… I love you?”

Orsino opened his eyes wide, looking at the impending elf dazedly.

Fenris suddenly realized that he was shouting – shouting at the person he loved more then anything in this world. The person he drove into a corner - _literally_. He looked at the familiar green eyes, and saw astonishment and a sparkle of fear there. What was he doing?

Fenris… well, he freaked out.

He sprang back and took off from the library like a shot from a gun. He ran through the hall, through the yard and further, to the training ground; here he hit the training dummy, putting all his anger in this strike – a solid dummy, able to withstand blows from experienced knights, crunched pitifully and fell down.

How? How is it possible? How could he bugger up all his dreams and hopes in one moment?

It wasn’t how he imagined his declaration of love… He wasn’t sure he’ll be ever able to actually declare it, he wasn’t ready, couldn’t get the nerve… He wasn’t sure Orsino would hear him out anyway.

Well, now he did declare… something. And was heard. Though now the enchanter most likely would never speak to him again, and that was completely understandable.

Hell, what an idiot he was! Fenris groaned and looked up. In front of him was the sign of _Herald’s Rest_. This is it, then. After he destroyed all that was good and worthy in his life, and with his own hands no less, drinking himself to death would be a suitable next step.

And he pushed the doors open.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite chapter. Guess why?

The morning after was horrible.

 

As a matter of fact, Fenris held his liquor pretty well – he could drink a lot without any negative consequences. And the mentioned ‘lot’ not necessarily meant high quality drinks – no, he rarely could get hold of these. Usually Fenris had to settle for the swill that was served in the _Hanged Man_ , where no one cared about maturity of the drink or double distillation; even the forecut wasn’t usually refined, and all alcohol here smelled slightly of acetone.

Hence how much had he actually drunk?...

The elf groaned and turned ungracefully to his back – the sunlight abused his sore eyes, and he covered them quickly with his palm. Swift movement resonated painfully inside his head and stirred up unpleasantly the boiling mirage that was inside.

The thoughts lazily formed a logical conclusion that it was only a beginning of a real disgrace; so the elf stood up, moving with a speed of a dead drunk snail (well, not really stood up – more like hunched himself up somewhere outside the bed) and went to the lavatory. His walking resembled a lame turtle – more so, because he was moving by touch, hoping only that this were indeed _his_ rooms and the lavatory was exactly where he’d left it.

After twenty minutes of utter disgrace Fenris managed to rub his eyes enough to recognize his bathroom and misrecognize his own reflection in the mirror. He pulled a face in disgust and groaned because of his own stupidity – every movement of facial muscles caused a new wave of pain. The elf walked carefully to the bedroom, wishing only to fall back on the bed and, if he was lucky, to die here quietly from shame.

The gods must have heard him and gave out an evil snicker.

On his table – at least now he could actually see it – there was a sealed vial and a note. The handwriting was familiar – he could recognize it anywhere and anytime, even being drunk as a hog.

Had Orsino… come here, to his room? Maybe he visited him not long ago? Has he seen Fenris in this state? Oh Maker… Or did he come to the _Herald’s Rest_? No, please, let it not be the case… Who knows what a drunk Fenris could have told him?

The elf groaned, paying no attention to the pain that flared again and abused his ears. So much for thinking that it couldn’t get worse…

Fenris moved closer to the table – cautiously, as if he was approaching a sleeping dragon. He rested his palm there, looming over the note, squinted his eyes feverishly and tried to concentrate on the letters – bid and legible ones, carefully written for someone with a severe morning headache (and who had learned to read not so long ago).

 

_Dear Fenris,_

_The vial contains a potion that may come very useful to you this morning._

 

‘Poison?’ thought Fenris gloomily. As far as he knew, there was no other means to cure stupidity.

 

_Yesterday you started a conversation that needs to be finished – preferably as soon as we both calm down. Otherwise, I’m afraid, you’ll begin avoiding me, and I wouldn’t like that – I appreciate your company and care about your peace of mind._

_Meet me at the library after you fix yourself. Just don’t scare Dorian again, please: in Tevinter the young mages are more used to getting locked in the library, not being thrown out of one. Your counterintuitive behavior makes the poor lad feel nervous._

_I’ll be waiting for you,_

_Orsino_

 

Fenris unstuck his gaze from the letter. His trembling hand moved to take the vial: he managed somehow to take grasp of it (on the third try), scratch off the cork (on the second try) and gulp the potion down. Good thing he swallowed it immediately – the taste was awful, but the pain dulled quickly and he finally stopped seeing spots that danced before him from the first moment he opened his eyes. The elf gave out a relaxed sign, sat on the bed, took his head in his hands and fell into a deep thought.

So, the things were looking up (especially compared to how he felt only five minutes ago, and he didn’t mean the hangover). The letter clearly stated that the enchanter wasn’t disgusted by him (‘ _I appreciate your company,’_ sang his mind in Orsino’s voice, and Fenris scarcely managed to shut it up, because more skeptical part of his conscience used the opportunity to remind him about ‘ _poor lads_ ’ and other objectionable things) and actually wanted to talk. Maybe Fenris was lucky, and got the second chance – and he was going to make the most of it.

Fenris nodded to himself resolvedly (at least his head wasn’t trying to blow itself with every movement now), stood up and went to the bathroom – again. On the agenda today was a long and thorough shower, a search for some clean and presentable clothes, a quick meal (breakfast – or what was appropriate at whatever time of the day was now) and the most important meeting in his life.

…

The most part of his plan was realized with success, thanks to the First Enchanter and his magic potion. Now it was time to get on with the most important and difficult part.

Fenris took in a deep breath, pondered a bit and signed; he paced before the closed door, swearing away with himself – he was doing that for quite some time before he realized that his frantic movements were in plain sight for every gawker from the upper gallery. The elf grew angry with himself and finally mustered enough courage to knock.

He heard Orsino’s steady voice.

“Come in, please.”

The Grumpy Elf straightened his shoulders and stepped inside like a person doomed to death.

Orsino was alone in his rooms. He was reading something; as he heard Fenris enter, he thacked the book by his fingers, creating a bright green bookmark, and put the unfinished book aside.

“Please, take a seat,” said he, hospitably pointing at the chair; Fenris shook his head fiercely, like he was offered to be tortured by his worst enemies, who wanted to know his deepest secrets – where Varric kept his drafts for a new novel, for example.

The enchanter signed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

“The thing is…” started he, but checked himself almost immediately. “No, that’s not going to do. Let me start from the very beginning, so you’ll have time to calm down. You see, Fenris, I started teaching when I was very young. And teenagers are very fickle with their emotions – they fall in love in a blink, and it’s slim pickings in the Circles. It is hard to teach anything under such conditions, so I… you see, if you want to keep a respectful distance between yourself and your pupils, the most effective way to achieve it is not to notice their advances. I’ve got so used to it that I might have really lost the ability to notice. So yes, your words yesterday came a complete surprise for me.”

Orsino leaned forward and looked at Fenris kindly. “You are a lot younger then me, Fenris. And you haven’t got the time to get to know me…”

“Three,” said the elf.

Orsino blinked perplexedly. “Three what?” asked he.

“Three years. Since I fell in love with you,” replied Fenris. “And I’ve known you for four,” added he after a moment.

“Oh,” said the enchanter and knitted his brows.

Fenris felt deep inside his being that it was now – or never. He would either get through to this wonderful man or loose everything. Because the enchanter was obviously going to politely reject him.

It was hardly surprising – of course, after such a confession!

And now it was time to put things right.

Fenris was composing this declaration for… hell knows how long, and still wasn’t satisfied with it. He couldn’t find the correct words to explain his feelings – hot, like Dagna’s furnace, and tender, like the elfroot leaves. But he could still try.

“I didn’t understand it then,” said he in a soft voice and took one step towards the enchanter. “I’ve just kept thinking about you; I didn’t like mages, I don’t like them still, and it was irritating as hell. Later I found out that I actually admire you, no matter what. And then… I realized that I’d fallen in love at the day of Grace’s rebellion – when we came back. I wanted to hug you and never let go… I’ll never forgive Anders for what he did! It felt like I died there too… We fought to protect mages, you know. You’d have wanted that. I… I don’t think I’ll be able to survive, if something happens to you again – it was like being dead inside. Just… don’t die, all right? I don’t ask for much – it’s fine if you don’t reciprocate, just… don’t send me away. Please?”

Fenris was coming closer as he spoke, looking everywhere, but not at the enchanter; at last he squatted down in front of Orsino and looked him in the eyes. He was blabbering – all good and right words he’d known by heart suddenly abandoned him. He was all alone, panicking and was only dimly conscious of what he was actually saying.

Orsino opened his eyes wide; a slight blush appeared on his cheeks. Fenris had finished his speech already and was waiting for some answer, but the enchanter, it seemed, didn’t even notice.

“I…” started he finally and faltered. “I apologize, Fenris. I just need a moment.”

“Umph,” replied Fenris. He didn’t move a bit, still squatted down.

Orsino looked away and knitted his brows. He looked deep in thought, staring into nowhere; Fenris had seen him like this before, when the enchanter was debating some serious matter in mind – like the issue of red lyrium, for example.

The Grumpy Elf signed silently. Looked like whatever he had said actually got through to the enchanter; all he could do now was waiting.

At last Orsino looked at him.

“That was… really unexpected. Now just… listen to me, please,” said he, and Fenris felt his heart sank within him. “I’ve never thought I would ever find my significant other, though I can’t say I’ve never wanted to… These emotions are rather difficult. I understand only in theory what love is and how it should be felt. I… I do like you, Fenris,” he looked kindly at the other elf, and Fenris thought he was going to melt with joy. “I enjoy your company and I find many aspects of your personality likable. But I don’t know if this is love – or if this could lead to love. But if you are willing to accept me as I am, with my worries and insecurities, well, then…”

Orsino made a helpless gesture and looked at Fenris, like he was left guessing what could come next.

At the same time the Grumpy Elf carefully thought over everything he’d heard; after that he started again from the very beginning – Fenris had excellent aural memory thanks to his former illiteracy, - and thought it over one more time. But the more he thought about it, the clearer it became that First Enchanter could have meant only one thing.

And Fenris wasn’t going to guess what would come next. Yes, the future still seemed dark and scary, but what should come next – oh, that he knew.

Fenris reached out slowly and took Orsino’s delicate palm.

He carefully took off the mage’s glove, peeling the doeskin from every finger with deliberation; then he put the glove aside and looked at the naked palm and fragile fingers, fascinated. Next, he leaned forward and touched the knuckles with his lips.

Orsino breathed in audibly.

His skin was smooth, dry and cool to touch. Fenris took his time, counting the knuckles with his lips; he turned the mage’s palm over and kissed the back of the hand, right where the long (thank the Maker for that!) lifeline was. The skin here was more tender and softer, but hardly warmer. Hm, that was interesting… The elf switched to other fascinating bits, like the inner side of the wrist, where three blue veins curled whimsically under the skin; the prominent part of ulna, the thin wrinkles where the wrist curves… Everything he touched seemed wonderful and perfect to him; he’d never known the delight of a simple touch, a touch to a significant person.

Maybe he was a bit too old to be passionate about love? Fenris had heard and read love stories, but he didn’t feel this ‘ _desire that burns you from the inside_ ’. It wasn’t like he didn’t feel desire at all (he did – oh, how he did! - every time he saw Orsino at the lectures or in the halls, or when he woke up alone in his room), but now, when the enchanter was right here, all he desired was this simple touch of affection. The simplest caress you give only to the person you love. Fenris was content to stay like this forever.

He kissed the delicate skin of the wrist one last time and raised his head; though he didn’t let go of the mage’s hand, holding it between his warm palms. He locked eyes with Orsino.

Th enchanter was blushing to the very tips of his ears. He was clearly embarrassed, and it made him look… cute. His eyes were shining – they looked brighter than any star above Thedas and greener than the lushest moss ever existed. Orsino was really handsome in that moment – and Fenris had never seen him like this.

What was he blabbering about desire?

Cross out and rewrite – he had never, _ever_ felt a rush of desire this hot and powerful.

He leaned towards the enchanter, like a man bewitched. All he wanted was to get closer to these beautiful eyes, shaded with short dark eyelashes, to these delicate features that he wanted to explore and memorize by touch, closer to these… lips…

His intentions must have been written all over his face, because Orsino’s eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief. The mage leaned towards him, deftly avoided bumping into Fenris’ nose and covered his lips with his own.

Fenris was confused at first. He didn’t even feel the taste of the kiss – he was slowly getting aware of what was going on and who was kissing him. Kissing! And nibbling his lower lip in oh so sweet manner, licking the corner of his mouth…

What was he blabbering again? To the hell with that!

Fenris surged forward, pressing himself closer to the enchanter. His fingers crawled into the mane of graying hair, and his left arm snaked around the other elf’s torso. Fenris bit, kissed and licked; he growled and whimpered; he greedily followed every sign, every movement and every small sound the other made. He enjoyed it all – the slight shiver of muscles under his palm, the breath he caught with his lips, the lightest touch of fingers on his shoulders… All he wanted was for this moment to linger.

But it predictably ended with an overturned chair: the poor thing was steady and comfortable, but it was clearly unfit for the passionate making out of two wild elves.

Fenris braced himself without thinking. He fell on his back, so that he would take the most of the damage (and he did – his shoulder blades hurt and he nearly twisted his leg), but the fragile frame of the other elf was safe in his arms.

He breathed out (the air with a couple of silent curses) and slowly relinquished his hold.

Orsino rose himself a little, leaning on his right arm and ticking back the stray lock of hair. His usually neat hair was in complete disarray, ant it looked… nice.

The elves looked at each other: the embarrassed lush green eyes were met with the laughing moss green ones. Both victims of passion smiled and burst out laughing. Fenris hadn’t feel the sincere wish to laugh since the end of his first year in Kirkwall, it seemed – when they were all in the _Hanged Man_ pouring the Deep Roads money down the drain and getting pissed.

“I’m sorry,” said he when he finally stopped giggling. “I’ve got… carried away.”

“It’s all right,” replied the enchanter with a smile. “I admit, it was a rather… beneficial turn of events.”

“Really?” asked Fenris, drawing himself forward.

“Yes,” said Orsino. His eyes shone brightly with joy and laughter. It seemed like he didn’t reply just to this question, but answered to something more grand and profound.

Fenris traced the mage’s jaw and cheekbone with his fingers, mesmerized. He pulled Orsino closer and kissed him again. At least here, on the floor, it was more comfortable to kiss the mage – and a lot safer.


	16. Chapter 16

A few samples of red lyrium were delivered at Skyhold at last, carefully wrapped to isolate people from the dangerous material. Every possible precaution was taken; either it was working, or something else was the case, but no one had been driven mad… yet. Maybe. At least no one acted more weird then usual (which wasn’t much, because most people here were weird by default, and it was hard to notice any difference).

First Enchanter was studying red lyrium too, though he admitted himself that he wasn’t a lyrium expert. Lavellan often saw Orsino stooping over his desk, busy with strange chemistry experiments.

Just like now.

“Well, this is odd,” murmured the enchanter thoughtfully. “And what do you see?”

At that moment Lavellan witnessed the oddest thing ever. Well, maybe not the oddest – there was enough weirdness around – but certainly the most unexpected.

The reality behind the enchanter suddenly fluttered and rippled, like someone leaned out of the window that was curtained by a thin veil. The translucent curtain twisted and showed the outlines of someone’s figure hanging in the air.

“Hum,” said the someone. The Veil – it should have been it – bended and defined the outlines of a head, shoulder and a paw. This someone leaned over Orsino’s shoulder to look at whatever was there on the table. “It is bright. It should be singing, but it doesn’t. It just… grits. An unpleasant, vile sound – as you people can say, it makes your teeth hurt.”

“An interesting observation, but useless,” noted Orsino calmly – as if a strange being wasn’t looming over him.

“Well, pardon me. That’s all I have for a moment,” snorted the invisible talker.

“Varric said that red lyrium sang,” said Lavellan as she came closer.

The enchanter and his consultant from the Fade looked at her, not at least surprised by her presence.

“It does. But not for everyone,” mused Orsino. “I too hear some quiet, unpleasant gritting noise. Maybe red lyrium needs to synchronize with a mind to start singing. What is it then – a narrow directional influence?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” snorted the Fade someone.

“I guess it is. Thank you, Jester, that’s enough for now.”

With an amused laugh the figure disappeared into thin air – like the creature stepped back from the window.

“Is this your… well, your…?”

“Yes, he is. It was the demon from Kirkwall Circle, Jester. I can’t say he is harmless, but usually he does more good than harm.”

“How low we have stooped. Demons do more good than some people,” signed Lavellan.

Orsino gave her a thin-lipped smile. “It’s always the same, to be honest. Thank you for your tactfulness, Rian – people rarely react so calm when they see a mage talking to demon.”

“Cullen has told us about him, so I was prepared.”

“Oh, yes. Your gallant Commander endured a lot on Jester’s account. It can’t be helped – spirits like Jester don’t tempt mages, and that’s a serious advantage. They are the closest to human beings of all Fade dwellers, and the easiest to communicate with, but at the same time they are very cunning creatures, prone to mischief.”

Lavellan only shrugged. She knew close to nothing about demons. But she knew that a lot of people she respected passed word for First Enchanter. If worst came to worst, Orsino had Fenris for that.

…

The very elf was tormenting himself with the question ‘what’s next?’

Previously all he wanted was to hold the enchanter forever in his arms and never let go. It was all so simple then! You like him, he agreed to try to like you (Fenris shivered pleasantly at the thought, feeling like he was drunk) – hold him tighter and be happy.

But he had to let Orsino go: the mage needed to do some preparations for his lessons (and people were already swarming into the library and knocking at the doors – he really should learn to lock them), and Fenris had to show up at the training grounds sometime. Though before he left Orsino gave him a kind smile and told to visit sometimes later. So now Fenris was suffering from his usual uncertainties: what the hell ‘ _later’_ is supposed to mean and how people understand when the right time actually is?

Damn. Why is it always so hard?

Furthermore, the elf had been daydreaming half of the night and had been having jitters for the other half, so now Fenris was sullen, bad-tempered and grumpy. Nothing indicated what had happened yesterday…

That wasn’t exactly true, as Varric gave him a wink, not paying attention to the elf’s grumpy frown; the strange elven mage grinned as soon as he noticed him, and Cullen greeted him a bit warmer than usual…

What was that anyway? Why all this sudden attention?

Fenris didn’t get the chance to ponder about it for long – the Inquisitor, Hawke and Loghain came back from their desert expedition with some news. Bad, as always.

Have Fenris already mentioned that Tevinter Magisters were the cause of all bad things in the world?

A Magister actually wriggled into the Warden’s mess too. What was the damned mage thinking – that without a Magister the world would collapse without much flourish? Tevinter mages were not exactly original either – this one offered the Wardens blood magic and the army of demons.

Now could anyone with a brain think this was a good idea?

The Gray Wardens could be noble and willing to make sacrifices all they wanted, but this was sheer madness. Which part of _blood_ and _demons_ didn’t they understand? The end does not justify the means.

War council seemed to be dragging on forever. The Advisers and other invited argued themselves hoarse about how they were going to ferret the Magister off the Wardens’ lair, but the only possible conclusion didn’t change: they would have to ferret off everyone and sort who was who afterwards.

The Grumpy Elf knew very well what that meant. As well as Hawke did. The assault – long, painful, bloody business with lots of deaths for both sides. You don’t need blood magic to kill others or die yourself. Why do people love to complicate things so much?

Fenris was morally tired – he hadn’t felt this tired since his last year in Kirkwall. He knew he wasn’t a good company now, but couldn’t make himself be alone any more, eating his soul away with his worries.

At least now he had someone to come to.

The Grumpy Elf was a lot grumpier than usual; as he was walking purposefully to the library, people scattered from his way in panic as soon as they caught a glimpse of the elf’s threatening aura. Even cocky Dorian and two Tranquil scientists (who were technically insensible to radiated threat) hurried to go deeper into the labyrinth of shelves.

Fenris flung the door of Orsino’s rooms open, like these doors insulted him somehow, and smashed them closed with such a bang, that on the lower floor the plaster must have began to fall on Solas.

He was met with a gaze of beautiful green eyes, warm and almost shining with some inner light. Orsino was reading something again; he smiled at the intruding elf and nodded to him in greetings.

Fenris silently moved closer, plopped down on the sofa, curled himself into a sullen, spinous ball and rested his head on the mage’s thigh. Like a dog would. Immediately he felt Orsino touch his hair – long delicate fingers caressed and scratched, so lightly and tenderly… It was an unfamiliar feeling, though far from unpleasant – on the contrary. The Grumpy Elf finally began to relax.

The gentle fingers stopped their movement suddenly.

“Fenris. Are you… purring?” asked Orsino, astonished.

“I am not,” grumbled the elf.

Orsino smiled and began caressing the silver hair again. He’d read a few more pages before he chuckled quietly: the warmed up and mellow elf was definitely purring.

…

Fenris had no idea how long he’d slept.

He didn’t plan sleeping either, but the nervous night and bad council took its toll, leaving the elf immensely tired. Though he certainly never planned to wake up _here_.

And like _that_.

It seemed he’d moved after falling asleep – he’d uncurled from the ball and was actually lying on Orsino, who just moved over (not wanting to wake the other elf up, apparently) and now was reclining with his legs on the sofa. And Fenris was surprisingly cozy with his head resting on the mage’s stomach like it was a pillow (a rather thin pillow indeed), his hands hugging the enchanter and the rest of his body covering the mage like a warm blanket.

Orsino moved his left hand fingers – they were still interlaced in the silver mane of hair. This gentle scratching made Fenris growl softly in bliss.

“Feeling better now?” asked the mage casually as he deftly flipped the book page with his thumb; he was holding a rather humble volume in his right hand, since there was no actual place to put it down – nearly all space available was occupied by Fenris.

“Mm-hm,” grumbled the elf and fidgeted sleepily. He then felt the outlines of the other elf’s body under him – very… definite outlines, even hidden by a thick material of the mage robes. It felt nice. And tempting… too tempting, in fact, and Fenris immediately felt a wave of embarrassment. “Is this all right? I mean…”

“Be my guest,” said Orsino lightly. “You were obviously in grave need of some company. And I’ve finally gotten warm – the drafts in this place are horrible.”

“Are you cold often?” asked Fenris, immediately worried – he even propped himself up on his elbows.

“Sometimes,” smiled Orsino. “I’ve never had a strong constitution after all.”

Fenris could have dipped up from his memory a lot of incidents when the stubborn enchanter demonstrated his adamant resolve and such an endurance that it could be safely named a miracle, but he refrained from going there. Instead he hugged the enchanter closer and laid back on him (what the heck! It was too late for embarrassment, and the position was so comfortable… and convenient for Orsino to pet him).

“So I’ll just lay down and warm you up for a while longer, hm?”

“Please do,” said the mage softly. “Care to explain what made you so upset?”

“Gray Wardens teamed up with a Tevinter Magister in order to kill all Elder Gods in their sleep. And they plan to do it by the means of demons and blood magic, naturally,” grumbled Fenris and sensed how tense the man pinned under him became.

Sure thing, the elf – as talented in this relationship business as he was – completely forgot about tact. You can’t just spring the news like that on somebody and hope they’ll be good about it.

But in a moment Orsino relaxed back. “The magister’s idea, I take it?”

“But of course. And now we have to assault a fortress no one could ever seize, plus there will be crazed mages and an army of demons behind its walls,” stated Fenris in a surly tone.

“Oh.” Orsino thoughtfully scratched a place behind the pointed ear in a way that was _just right_ , and Fenris felt like he was going to melt from pleasure… or fall asleep again. “I think I might have some interesting ideas about assaulting a fortress with minimal casualties. From our side at least.”

The Grumpy Elf raised his head, surprised, and was met with a view of Orsino’s eyes, shining with mischief. Fenris felt the need to smile despite everything. Oh yes, they’ve got blood mages too. And these mages had more skill and knowledge than anyone else – not to mention that no Magister could be a match for their First Enchanter.

…

“I declare the War Council open!” cried Hawke happily.

Fenris thought that this guy seemed to solve every problem by sheer evergreen optimism and his thick skin. Usually it was a good thing, but now the elf was angry with his friend: half an hour ago Garret burst into the First Enchanter’s rooms and demanded both elves’ presence on the meeting. He wasn’t a single bit embarrassed by who and what he saw; it was nice of him, yes, but because of his interruption Fenris had lost his chance to talk with Orsino! To discuss their… relationship. Well, it might have been his own fault, because no one made him fall asleep on the enchanter and talk about his own problems afterwards, but…

What of it? It was Hawke fault all right!

The Grumpy Elf payed no heed to the meeting. Firstly he was just woken up from a sweet drowse, and secondly he didn’t care what Orlais thought about Inquisition. Fenris neither liked nor cared about politics. He didn’t know much about it – actually, he knew so little in this department that here, on the meetings like that, he felt too… _elven_ , and he hated it.

It was the worst feeling. He despised his dumb kinsmen and never wanted to be like them.

So, the delightful task to keep up with the discussion was left to the Inquisitor, who was less lucky: due to her title she lacked the excuse to evade her Advisors. Though judging by her pitiful expression, she understood here no more than Fenris did.

The lucky elf decided to spend this time more pleasantly be making acquaintance with teyrn Loghain Mac Tir – a grumpy looking, dark-haired man with patches of gray on his temples. His facial expression was most unwelcoming – if the man was an elf, he could be Fenris’ twin. And Fenris actually liked the man. He was smart and a good military leader; his experience was obvious by the way he was patiently waiting for others to shut up about Orlais and start talking tactics.

“Siege equipment is all very well, but one needs skillful people to operate it,” said he to Fenris in a hushed voice. “And soldiers to protect and shield it, while others are moving the equipment to the walls. This Inquisition of yours just doesn’t have enough people.”

“We still have a few tricks up our sleeves,” replied Fenris vaguely.

Teyrn looked at him with grim curiosity. “Can you be more specific?”

“Fight fire with fire,” Cullen cut into their talk. “Josephine, please, let’s talk about battle! I don’t know a thing about your politics, and I care a lot more about the assault strategy.”

Leliana and Josephine signed, ready to reprimand straightforward Commander, but-

“Yes, please!” cried Lavellan, jumping to her chance to stop this diplomatic torture.

“What fire do you mean?” asked Loghain suspiciously.

“I mean figuratively, but… Isn’t it better to use blood magic against blood mages and succeed, then to be all noble and die on the battlefield?” said Cullen. “Have you got any ideas about that, Orsino?”

“Actually, I do,” replied the enchanter. “Though it depends on what you are ready to sacrifice.”

Hawke shuddered as if he was cold. He never liked talks about sacrifices.

“You mean that you are ready to sacrifice your people to succeed?” asked Loghain in a dangerous voice. “It might not be the craziest plan I’ve ever heard, but pretty close. Should I remind you that not a single one of such plans ended well? We want to end the army of demons, not to join – or am I mistaken?”

His tone clearly stated that if the teyrn was indeed mistaken, someone would have to pay for it.

“We do,” signed Orsino. “But every war is based on sacrifices, even without the blood magic – it only offers the opportunity to choose who will die. That’s how the Wardens came to the idea of demon army, I guess. But I didn’t mean it like that; what I wanted to say was – do we need Wardens alive or not? I need to choose the proper ritual; for example, I know one spell that burns to ashes everything that is inside the enclosure. It doesn’t even cost much, just a few handfuls of blood.”

People shivered.

“The mages are slaves to Corypheus, but there can’t be that many mages among the Wardens,” stated Leliana thoughtfully. “To butcher them all in such a fashion is a bit extreme – we should leave this option as a last resort. Is there anything that could help us seize the fortress with minimal casualties from both sides?”

“Well,” said the enchanter and punched the bridge of his nose. “Pity they are Wardens – they are used to scary things, so it’s unlikely we could just frighten them into surrender. Mind spells are out of option too: there is something that influences them already, so any mental magic may produce unfortunate side effects. We could destroy a part of the wall, but do you really need it? Unless… Hm.” The enchanter looked deep in thought. He traced his lower lip with his forefinger (Fenris’ gaze glued to this gesture immediately and unstacked only after Hawke dug him in the side). “We may hold one ground flank – my Circle and our templars.”

Dre discussion dragged on for a long time. Teyrn Loghain was mostly shaking his head disapprovingly, but at the end agreed with the general plan – with some additions and changes from his part. Blood mages were a serious advantage, and there was a real chance that there would be less war victim for both sides.

After they were done, most people were on their way; though some settled in the library. Cullen, who after the War Council developed a tremendous respect for Loghain, sat him at the table with a pile of some schemes and maps and started to explain something ecstatically; the grumpy Warden quickly felt at ease in a company of another commander, so he groaningly took away the quill from him and began to draw. The lines of his scheme were so straight and right that any professional drafter would have turned green with envy. Hawke latched onto the local magister and managed to tease Fenris at the same time: the elf back talked rather creatively with Tevinter swear words. It made Hawke hoot with laughter, while Dorian shrugged it off, his mustache ruffled indignantly. Well, Fenris did curse like a sailor.

Orsino and Lavellan were busy with sampling the chamomile tea. In front of them Solas was pacing back and forth.

“This is unspeakable! The Wardens must be stopped! Their barbarous plan could shatter the balance that still remains in the world. Every single one of their savage rituals damages the Fade in most horrible way!”

“I wonder why did they agreed to do it anyway,” noted Lavellan with a shrug of her shoulders. “It is all very sad, because they really think they are helping people with their sacrifices. But in reality…”

“There is an Antivian parable on the subject. It’s short and simple, but rather interesting. Do you want to hear it?” offered Orsino.

“I do,” smiled the Inquisitor and sipped the aromatic tea.

Orsino took out his pipe and puffed it to life. The now familiar view of the smoking elf was relaxing.

“Once upon a time a beautiful girl lived in the Antivian village. She had all virtues imaginable; she was kind, honest, intelligent and had the most loving, pure heart. Her parents doted on her. Once a noble baron saw her; so beautiful and charming she was, that he immediately proposed to marry her. He caught her heart, and she agreed. But her parents did not approve of her choice. At first her father came to her and spoke: “Please reconsider, daughter of mine. The baron is evil, cruel man, he would bring you only pain”. The girl felt insulted by his words – she stayed faithful to her love, and sent her father away. Next her mother came. “Please, be careful, daughter of mine. Evil lives in the baron’s heart.” Again the girl felt insulted by her words, and she fell out with her mother – how could she speak bad about the man she loves! At last her brother came to talk to her. “Look at what you’ve done. Our mother’s hair is completely gray now, our father is miserable and ill. Don’t you love them? Please, give up the baron!” But the girl could not give up her love, could not betray her promise, and the wedding took place at time.”

Orsino took a long draw on his pipe.

“So?” asked Lavellan as she leaned forward a bit, curious. By now everyone was listening to the enchanter’s tale: Solas even stopped his futile trampling of the library carpet, and two warriors were distracted from their maps and schemes.

“And after the wedding night the baron killed the girl, as she was no longer interesting to him. Her parents died from grief, and her brother hanged himself out of guilt. That’s the end of the story of blind virtue.”

“That’s… that’s just awful!” said Rian with a shake of her head.

“Yes, the parable isn’t a cheerful one, but it is rather insightful,” said Orsino and let out a puff of smoke. “We find ourselves in this girl’s seat a lot more often than we think. Virtue without any flaws is cruel and blind. Who knows where the virtue ends and foolish obduracy starts? We try to do the best thing – but sometimes we are too headstrong to see when we stop thinking _about_ other people and start thinking _for_ them. In real live people rarely crave to conquer and destroy the world, dear – that’s the privilege of fairy-tale villains. The most horrible things in our history started with the most noble intentions.”

Thoughtful silence held in the library.


	17. Chapter 17

Fenris was snoozing. But even through his slumber he felt the presence of someone – not an alien presence, but a very familiar one, kind and gentle. He felt a touch of dry chapped lips to his forehead; the elf sleepily rose his hands to embrace the stranger - and deftly toppled him on the lounge. He rolled over to pin his prey under him, so it couldn’t escape; Fenris relaxed, his face hidden between the stranger’s neck and shoulder, and breathed in the familiar scent, signing in pleasure.

“Fenris! Fenri! You silly lad, what do you think you are doing?”

“Sleeping,” deadpanned the elf.

Orsino fidgeted helplessly under him. “Fenris, sleeping with one’s clothes on is considered bad manners. And it’s not very comfortable, I believe.”

The Grumpy Elf opened one eye. “So what are you suggesting?”

“I’m just stating the obvious,” said Orsino with a smile and stopped his tentative efforts to free himself. He relaxed on a comfortable arm rest, that made a perfect pillow (that’s exactly why Fenris chose the library lounge – enchanter’s sofa was a bit too short, but this lounge was perfectly shaped).

“I have no idea what you expect,” grumbled Orsino and saw the surprised look the other elf gave him. “I mean, about clothes and so on… Off, actually. After all, I am a lot older then you, and elder men are not so pretty.”

Fenris looked at the mage’s collar thoughtfully. Not so pretty, you say? Hm-m… Under the thick fabric there must be a delicate shoulder, pale and creamy white, an elegant curve of collarbone with a tempting dimple… His glance moved lower enthusiastically, and it was very clear what exactly Fenris was expecting to find under the mage’s robes and what he was going to do with it; Orsino seemed to understand the idea, because he became embarrassed and tried to look away – even the tips of his ears blushed. Fenris, who was completely awake now ( _too_ awake, to be honest – the result of thinking about the mage’s robed _too deeply_ ), smiled, held the enchanter closer and hid his own blushing face in the mage’s collar.

Well, Orsino wasn’t the only one here who was embarrassed…

“Why are you here anyway?”

“Waiting for you.”

Orsino gave out a short laugh and stroked the elf’s silver hair. Fenris made a low humming sound (it _was not_ purring, thank you very much).

“Why? We’d meet tomorrow – well, today, as we all will head out in the morning. You should have got some sleep before the assault.”

“I just wanted to see you, that’s all.”

“Really? I don’t see you _looking_ at me – more like _touching_ ,” grumbled the enchanter, though not unkindly.

They stayed like this for a bit longer. Orsino was caressing the silver hair thoughtfully, and Fenris was thrilled with all the gentle touches and just enjoying the situation. How could he live without it before?

“I hope, I don’t need to remind you that if you die, you’ll no longer be welcome here?” asked Orsino.

Fenris levered himself up with his elbow and looked at Orsino seriously. “No, you don’t. But remember: if anything funny happens to you again, I’ll come to the Black City itself to bring you back!” He sat up and offered his hand to the enchanter. “Don’t get hurt, please. I don’t want to end like this brother from your tale.”

Orsino casted a lingering look at him and nodded, completely serious.

…

Neither Hawke not Fenris had ever participated in something so grand.

The battle promised to be epic, whatever the case. Adamant Fortress was majestic. It lacked fineness that Skyhold had – actually, it most of all reminded a giant toad on a hill, - but the size of it literally crushed all hopes of anyone who decided to encroach on it. The walls were so thick that one could give a ball on them.

Pity the Wardens were not famous for their dancing skills.

Fenris was in Lavellan’s squad as an experienced bodyguard and protector. The elf wasn’t happy with this decision – not that he hated Lavellan, of course, but he himself preferred to protect another person. But duty wasn’t just a form of words: the siege plan was very thorough and detailed, and every recruit mattered. It was still possible that even now their forces weren’t enough.

One flank was almost empty. There was only a small, lonely group of mages – about twenty – surrounded by a few templars in shining armor.

The plan (which Fenris pointedly didn’t approve of) backbone was that the Wardens would laugh this flank to scorn and wouldn’t pay attention to it, being busy with the rest of the attacking army. Meanwhile the mages would prepare their ritual and reverse the tide of battle.

Fenris managed to catch Orsino’s glance just before the battle. The mage was wearing Kirkwall colours, gray and blood red; he was pale, but calm and collected. He was looking at the majestic fortress, as if estimating the scope of work.

“May the Maker help us. Orsino – give them a hard time,” said Cullen as he took off his armor glove and held his hand out.

Orsino shook his hand earnestly, smiling with his eyes only. “We’d do our best. Take care, Commander, of yourself and your soldiers.”

Then he looked right at Fenris.

Everything froze at this moment, even sounds. Clatter, armor clash and people’s shouts grew quieter and became unimportant, fading away; other things turned into shadowy figures and patches of colour – they continued to circle around the two of them, pointless and unnoticed. All that existed for Fenris in that moment were the beautiful eyes, shiny and green like the light forest moss.

The moment ended.

Orsino led his group to the positions. Fenris took his place in Lavellan’s squad, scaring people with his grumpy scowl. He didn’t know what exactly the mages had planned; he knew the War Council had argued a lot, discussing the options and sorting out the most creepy ones, but he didn’t care much who the winner was. Fenris hated blood magic, as he’d always did – he just stopped caring when a certain mage was at issue.

The fortress awoke: people began to bustle on the walls. Well, they hoped they were people – it was hard to tell a demon from a human at such distance.

“Here we go,” mumbled Cullen. He clasped his fingers so hard that his gantlet creaked and took a breather. “Hark on! For the Inquisition!” commanded he, calm but spirited.

The army roared enthusiastically, and they moved on Adamant fortress.

No wonder the fortress was considered unassailable: the giant toad bristled with horns and thorns, and it was very hard to even get close to the walls, not to mention climb them. Fenris took a templar shield to protect Lavellan from stones and trash that Wardens threw on soldiers’ heads. But soon he was fed up and bored, so he took the elven girl by the scruff, like a kitten, and dragged her away from the walls. Till the gates were captured she was useless anyway, and his shoulder was starting to complain.

Lavellan looked at him with a betrayed expression. Fenris gave out his best scowl. Loghain though, who was nearby (an experienced commander indeed – always nearby, but not close enough to make his bodyguard life hell), called her down rather severely.

“Take cue from your guard, and you are going to be all right,” he said. “He knows his job. No need to kill yourself and spoil our plans – leave it to other people.”

Abashed Lavellan stood where she was told. Fenris nodded to Loghain gratefully, and the human gave him a crooked smile.

The assault was exactly how Fenris imagined it. The elf wasn’t sentimental, but still, he didn’t like to watch the people he knew die right here, in front of him. One might think: what people need demons for, they could kill each other pretty easily by their own efforts.

Adamant was really good. The assaulting army didn’t stand a chance – right until the moment when the tide of battle was reversed, as promised.

Dark, heavy clouds appeared on the horizon. The clouds came from west - where the empty flank was; they creeped closer, hanged over the fortress west walls and gathered in a circle, curling and looking very threatening. The outlines of clouds had a menacing sanguineous sheen. And then the ground was struck by lightning.

Actually, any skilled mage could induce a lightning or trigger off a storm. But it wasn’t just a storm – it was The Storm. With The Lightnings. One lightning was as thick as a grown up man -they melted the sand, leaving afterwards the giant puddles of bubbling hot glass.

The storm creeped closer and closer. The sand whirled, the wall melted on the surface; the lightning stroke, and the Wardens, who protected the wall, turned into piles of ashes. People smelled the trouble and ran off the west wall in panic, leaving it without protection.

And the fortress gates were close enough.

As Lavellan’s squad climbed the wall, Fenris couldn’t help looking west. Here, in the eye of the storm, the mages were: they moved like they were waltzing, waving their hands that dripped blood. The wind was catching the crimson droplets and swirled them around the group of mages, creating a terrifying scarlet vortex. In the center of the group was Orsino.

Copper and silver hair streamed in the wind, his eyes were twinkling; the enchanter was tapping to the rhythm with his staff, entangled in visible power lines. To Fenris the mage looked like the wind spirit, imprisoned in a magic cage.

“Clarel is right there!” shouted someone into Fenris’ ear, and he snapped out of his trance. Oh, right: in the fortress inner courtyard something highly obscene was going on, and people there were in a great hurry to finish with whatever they were doing before the Inquisition came. It was always a pleasure to spoil someone’s hopes in a situation like this.

Fenris clasped his sword, feeling its familiar and comfortable weight, and jumped down from the wall.

Looked like they’d interrupted a summoning ritual of a particularly big and nasty demon. Fenris gave the auditory a smile, full of malicious joy, and stepped closer to the magister with a full intent to show him the wrongness of his ways.

“Fenris, wait!” cried Lavellan, and the elf stopped, not happy with the interruption. “Please, let’s stop with the pointless bloodshed – let’s better talk it, like adults!” said she to the Wardens

What a naïve soul she was… The elf snorted, but didn’t insist on killing the damn magister right away, no matter how much he wanted to. But he was watching both magister and the Wardens carefully – he’d be damned if anyone managed to inflict harm on the Inquisitor during the peace talks. It wasn’t beneath the Tevinter magister.

The magister in question wasn’t the brightest staff in Tevinter armory… He tried to persuade Clarel to continue, and nearly succeeded, but his brains – if there was any – overheated at last, and the magister summoned the Archdemon.

To the Warden’s keep.

A real nitwit, this one.

Afterwards there was a lot of fuss and noise: the Wardens at sight of their natural enemy ganged up against it and forgot all about the siege and the Inquisition; Clarel turned against the magister, who was sincerely surprised by the turn of events. The storm was invading the yard little by little, so everyone with an instinct of self-preservation hurried away from it. The squad bumped into Clarel and the magister on the wall bridgings; Fenris brightened up, as he saw his chance to kick some magister’s ass, but at that moment the fat-brained Archdemon landed on the fortress wall.

Adamant might be a good fortress, but his walls were not prepared for an twenty-ton of scaly surprize.

They collapsed.

As he was falling, Fenris had a few moments to think. How silly the things ended: he managed to survive a number of absolutely horrible things, and he was going to die now, because of the stupid wall! Damn. He had so much to do!

The flash of greed, and the darkness embraced him.

…

Fenris woke up.

He blinked.

Nope, it didn’t help – a funny… thing was still there, right under his nose.

He tried to move away, but accidently touched something - and plopped down with a thud.

“Ouch.”

“What, you’ve fell too?”  asked him cheerful Hawke’s voice.

Fenris rubbed his sore side, grunted and turned over – ah, there Hawke was.

On the ceiling. Or whatever.

“That’s definitely not how I’ve imagined the afterlife,” grumbled Fenris as he got up and looked around. The scenery was unquestionably an eyeful, but Fenris personally preferred something more traditional.

“I second that!” huffed Hawke. Balancing himself, he walked from the ceiling by some stalactite and jumped down next to Fenris. The jumping distance was small, but Hawke grunted from effort and winced, as he landed painfully on the ground. “Bugger me! I thought here could be no pain! Pity we don’t have any clergymen here, I’d love to ask some tricky questions to _competent_ people.”

“It’s no use, because we are not in your Maker’s realm,” said another voice, and Solas emerged from the stalactite forest. “The Inquisitor opened the rift, and we’ve fallen into the Fade. In the flesh.”

Others came around, groaning, moaning and wheezing: Loghain, Varric, Cassandra and, of course, Lavellan. Cole started to panic that everything was not right, and the elven mage tried to calm him down.

“Wow, a dream came true! Pity it was a dream of some idiot,” commented Hawke. “But I don’t get why Corypheus strives for this place. As for me, I think it is dark, damp and creepy.”

“Suits him well,” muttered Loghain. “What are we going to do next? Make another rift to jump out from?”

Lavellan shrugged apologetically. She couldn’t create rifts at will – only at impulse and if she was really lucky.

Eventually they decided to go to the big rift, which was clearly seen even from here: Solas implicated that it was actually the yard rift, there the Wardens were trying to summon something really nasty. And this nasty thing must be nearby.

‘At least there will be enough asses to kick,’ thought Fenris. Now that he knew he was alive, worry for Orsino started to gnaw at him. Was the enchanter all right? Did the Wardens attack the Kirkwall mages? Had anyone told him what happened?

The elf quickened his pace.

The spectacular appearance of the Most Holy did not make much of impression on Fenris. He wasn’t a religious type and wasn’t going to became one now. Some old woman dwelling there – so what? No big deal. If it was a trap, he would kill her; if it wasn’t – well, good for them. Hawke too wasn’t going all crazy over the last Divine, unlike Cassandra – though it was understandable, she knew the woman personally.

“Hello there!” came out a cheerful shout.

People turned around.

Behind them there was someone – someone who seemed to be made of maroon and green light. It was bouncing on one leg and whirling like a ballet-dancer. Every bounce produced a harmonious chime on the edge of perception: the sound was gone every time you looked away from stranger. Actually, the strange figure reminded a human (or elf, which was more likely, as the figure was rather slender) in a striped green-and-red jester's cap.

“What's the hold-up?” sing-songed the stranger and whirled, standing on one leg. “Oh, hello there, Faith-y! Being the smarty pants again, are you?”

“What brought you here, Deceit?” asked Justinia.

It was hard to read emotions on a face made of pure light, but somehow it was clear that the demon winced.

“I’m the Jester, it’s much more than just deceit,” said he in educatory tone and raised his finger to enhance the impression. “So, what are you waiting for? Get the hell out of here before Nightmare gathers his wit. Good for you he’s such a fat slob, his wit gathering can take forever.”

The demon chuckled to his own joke.

“Are you trying to help us?” asked Lavellan suspiciously.

“Sort of,” nodded the demon. “Enchanter asked to look after you lot. Though I didn’t expect to see you personally – we rarely get guests in the flesh. We don’t have a lot of entertainment nowadays, except for some yelling from those city idiots, but that’s became boring for a long time already. So, what are you waiting for? Move! What are, newbies on the Harrowing? Even they acted smarter then you!”

The squad moved forward obediently, ashamed by the comparison. Justinia-Faith, who was keeping a disapproving silence, flied right after the merrily bouncing demon. Fenris – and others too – was trying to understand what did the demon mean with his last speech.

The city… The Black City?

“Erm… What idiots did you talk about?” asked Hawke throwaway, as if he wasn’t really interested.

“Damned if I know,” responded the demon readily. “Some kind of gawks. They’ve sat in the city for a long time now. We don’t go there – they are loud and, to be honest, rather aggressive. Even Rage is a better company in comparison, and that says a lot. And they are boring, always whining about power, revenge and so on. No imagination at all.”

Jester jumped from one stalactite to another with little effort, accompanied by clear sound of a bell chime – it must have been the jester’s cap bells. The Fade bells – was there the end of the Fade wonders?

“So, now we know that someone actually lives in the Black City!” said Dorian enthusiastically. “Considering that now we a dealing with a crazed Magister, it could only mean that they did reach the Black City back then!”

“It did not bring happiness neither to them nor to the others,” noted Justinia-Faith, folding her ghostly hands on her chest.

“Really? Corypheus looked pretty happy with himself to me,” grumbled Fenris. He was watching the two demons warily: they hadn’t offer or demand anything yet, but he didn’t like them being there. Demon of Deceit – who could trust Deceit?

Cole woke up from his trance and gave his next insight: “Lie needs life, a living soul. Without it there is only cold and death. These people are mine, I bill not give them up!”

“Looks like it is a very old demon of Deceit” mused Solas. “Old demons become more… personalized with time. Deceit is an outcast among the spirits, as it is neither an emotion, nor a virtue or vice. Maybe that’s why it found home with a Circle that was too considered an outcast by others.”

“And he must be drawn by Orsino’s dancing ritual,” added Hawke.

“We are rarely invited to dance now,” said the voice just above Fenris’ ear; the elf turned around abruptly and came face to face with the demon, who managed to sneak up on him. The demon grinned (his features didn’t change, but the grin was somehow there) and bounced away.

“Hello, Compassion! Long time no see,” he greeted Cole. “Anyway, nowadays everyone aims to lodge a curse on you face right away. Neither rhyme nor reason.”

“I’m… sorry to hear it,” said Solas, hanging his head down.

“Pffft!” the demon brushed away his words. “Don’t bother. Now we keep company only with those who really want to. It’s not bad: one worthy person is better than a crowd of boring ones.”

“It’s more exiting to deceit him?” sneered Fenris.

“It’s more exiting to hang around,” corrected him the demon and winked.

Fenris stumbled and didn’t answer.

Well. This demon was fine… for now. At least it was showing them the way out and asked for nothing… yet. Nightmare was a different story. It was annoying as hell.

‘ _He will never love you_ ,’ whispered it in Fenris’ ears. He elf nearly laughed then.

So what?

It didn’t matter – he only wished the enchanter to be alive and well.

‘ _But you cannot protect him_ ,” continued Nightmare his dirty deed.

‘ _Try me_ ,’ thought Fenris darkly. ‘ _Touch him, and I’ll pluck out all your paws and eyes, you damn spidery shit!_ ’

Nightmare became quiet after that – maybe he realized the elf wasn’t joking (and he wasn’t – he was always damn serious about his threats) or he decided to bother someone more impressionable.

Or maybe he decided to outsmart them and make an ambush near the rift – and that was exactly what he did. Fenris did not really expect such a dirty trick from a demon, as most of them were rather dumb, and swore passionately in Tevine. This time Dorian didn’t bat an eye – he agreed completely. No one could look without cursing at the hulk of a demon near the exit.

How much should one eat to turn into such a fat slob?

“I’ll stay behind and get your six,” said Hawke as he appreciated the bulk of the demon.

“No, I’ll stay,” said Loghain. “I should have died ten years ago – now it’s time to pay that debt.”

Lavellan was fed up with this day already – even without the self-sacrificing idiots. She let out a roar: “Are you both mad? I'll show you a thing or two about staying behind! We’ve fallen there together, and we are going to get out of here – together! Am I clear? If anyone tries to trail behind, I’ll personally come for him and drag him by the hair!”

The squad became ashamed and dismissed the decadent ideas. Fenris stepped closer to Hawke and dealt him a ponderous slap upside the head. He’d see him damned first! And if Hawke had actually stayed behind, Varric would have teared Fenris into a thousand tiny elves, as he was the one to blame. He should remember to watch this self-sacrificing idiot carefully.

Garret smiled apologetically.

Deceit demon was watching their quarrel with interest. At last it danced closer to the cleft from where Nightmare could be seen. It stood there, as if listening for something, and suddenly grinned.

“It is time. Come on, old bag – let’s show this fat dolt what we are made of!” cried it happily, addressing to Justinia. She nodded, and they both flied towards Nightmare like two shiny arrows.

Fenris perked his ears.

He definitely heard something. It was like a song, very quiet, but familiar. And the voice…

“Do you hear it?” asked he.

People strained their ears honestly.

“Hear what?” asked Hawke after a moment.

“This!” snapped Fenris angrily and tried to voice the song. “Jager weg halt dish zue mure… Don’t you hear it?

Solas perked up: “You’ve heard these words? These exact words?”

“Yes!”

“ _Jeder Weg holt dich zu mir_ ,” muttered the elven apostate. “An old Elven dialect used mostly for creating spells. It translates as ‘ _all roads will bring you to me’_. Look!”

The Fade rift started to glow. Nightmare stirred angrily, whined and moved away a bit, opening a narrow path.

“Go!”

They ran. They were running as fast as they could, dodging the paws of the monstrous creature that became significantly less agile. Fenris was the first, leading everyone to the top of a cliff without any doubts, as if he was a compass: he was guided by a whisper of a song:

_Sei mein Licht und mein Blick_

_Der mir zeigt wo ich bin*_

They fell from the rift onto the yard, where the assault and the electric storm were long over; Fenris threw Lavellan forward, into the rift, and jumped next after, stumbling in a hurry and nearly falling on the ground – but someone caught him.

“Thank the Maker,” said the voice just at his ear. The elf righted himself and turned over; he was met with the soft green-eyed gaze of Orsino.

“We’ve began to think you lost your way,” said the enchanter.

“We nearly did,” nodded Fenris. “Was it you singing?”

The mage looked embarrassed. But he didn’t have time to say something: people started sorting out who was right, who was wrong and what to do with the answers. All Fenris managed to do was to say thanks to the other elf.

…

It was time to return to Skyhold. They were marching longwise some Orlaisian fields and farmlands. Fenris was looking at the greenery with such a grumpy expression that the poor crops should have ignited spontaneously.

“Pastoral landscape isn’t for your liking, I take it?” asked him Iron Bull, clearly interested.

Fenris looked at the qunary without changing the grumpy intensity of his gaze. And suddenly he got an idea.

“Look,” said he slowly. “Do you know a thing about plants?”

The Bull looked at him incredulously: “Well, I’m not Dalish, but I can tell a dandelion from a daisy. Why?”

Fenris’ eyes twinkled. “Can you explain to me how the black currant looks like?”

 

* _“Be my light and my sight, That will show me where I am”. The part of the ancient Elven is played by German, the song belongs to Unheilig and is named «Sei Mein Licht»_


	18. Chapter 18

Fenris hesitated at the library doors for five minutes only (that was a record indeed), stoutly entered at the mail hall and knocked at the First Enchanter’s doors.

He waited for the permission to enter.

As he got it, he silently strode into the room and handed the mage a reap of sharp and fresh smelling leaves – without a word.

“Oh,” said the surprised enchanter, who recognized the presented foliage as the leaves of black currant. Looked like the elf reaped a lot of poor bushes: all twigs were well-matched and had big, flawless green leaves.

“Well, I thought about flowers, but…” Fenris looked down at his toes, embarrassed. “I don’t know what kind of flowers you like.”

Orsino looked at him incredulously. His lips quivered inappreciably, as if he was holding back an involuntary smile - with no luck.

“I…” The enchanter looked down at his ‘flowers’. “Actually, this is the most singular gift I’ve ever got. Thank you.”

Fenris gave out a crooked smile and finally relaxed. The idea that seemed ingenious at the Orlaisian fields was seeming sillier and sillier as they were getting closer to Skyhold. And it was hard to get read of all the caterpillars. Why they even were on this black current – surely, they weren’t eating it?

Meanwhile Orsino carefully laid out the leaves on the table, wrapped them in some spell and folded into simple brown paper. “I don’t want them to dry out,” he said. “I doubt I have enough strength today to make the liquor… Though I don’t really want to sleep either.”

Looked like the singular gift had thrown the mage off his stride, and he lost his mask of the unfaltering First Enchanter. His shoulders dropped, and the mage gripped himself with his arms as if he was cold, though he was standing near the fireplace.

One moment later the bigger, warmer hands covered his own, and a warm body snuggled close to his back.

“It’s all right now,” said deep and calm voice at his ear. “We are alive. Because of you, by the way. I doubt Nightmare would dare to trouble our dreams now.”

“Well, yes,” said the enchanter with a sad smile. “But we all have enough nightmares of our own. I doubt a demon has a lot to add up…”

Fenris snorted. He did have his personal nightmares too – actually, right now he was holding in his arms the main reason of them.

“And what about this… jester?” asked he cautiously. Fenris didn’t like to talk about demons, but he really had to ask.

Orsino blinked in surprise and then smiled kindly. “Jester? Alive and well, as far as I know. If that’s appropriate thing to say about demon. He’s a sly trickster, he will see us all out.”

Fenris pondered for a moment and decided he’d better ask about everything else right now. It’s better to know things right away than to held off until they start to gnaw at you.

“Where did this demon come from?”

Orsino hummed something illegible and looked at the fire unseeingly. “I don’t really know,” said he after a moment of silence. “When I just got to Kirkwall, there was a Sloth demon in the Circle – Torpor, as it called itself. Sloth demons are the most common in Circles – you can draw out the logical conclusion.”

Fenris chuckled softly. Anyone who cared to watch Inquisition mages closely could understand that two thirds of them were just simulating: in fact instead of working they were dawdling and fiddling around. The templars were easier to handle – at least a lazy templar was obvious. Lazy mages were harder to catch red-handed.

Orsino wasn’t trying to free himself from the hug – actually, he was warming his hands under the other elf’s palms. And continued his story: “We didn’t get along, that was clear from the very beginning. Then Sir Decemvir suggested to lure another demon, as he was at deadly feud with Torpor. Knight Commander was also interested in my Round Dance ritual and contemplated that it could be used to summon exactly the demon we need; and other mages might also get interested and stop avoiding me like a leper.”

“So, did it work?”

“Yes. Other mages and me finally became acquainted in the working climate. As for our summoning, we’ve got Jester. He could be hard and he’s a real rascal sometimes, but he’s never failed us since. He is Deceit, and Deceit doesn’t seek ways to get to the real world – it likes only to watch. Deceit does not create abominations.”

“Huh,” muttered Fenris. “Has he mentioned to you the Black City?”

“Oh, that one. I’ve asked him too, but he can’t explain it straightly. Jester is, after all, a demon, and he perceive people as something abstract. All I could get from him was that someone – or most likely someones – was imprisoned here a long time ago, maybe even before humans came to Thedas. At the times of the ancient Elves, maybe.”

“But who were they?”

“Who knows?” shrugged Orsino. “We have only bits and pieces of knowledge from the times this old. The Dalish stories are just that – their attempt to link together pieces that don’t fit. There could be no answers there. Were they the forgotten gods? Or the kings, banished far away? Or  the opposite – the elves who wanted to dethrone the kings of old? Take your pick. But remember, the dwellers of the Fade avoid this place – whatever is imprisoned there, it’s long gone mad.”

Fenris pondered about the new information. In the process he pressed his face into the enchanter’s neck, just where the shoulder starts; here the skin wasn’t hidden by the robes. He wasn’t exactly kissing the pale skin, but… almost. Just hinting that he could.

“Stay,” asked the enchanter very quietly.

“Yeah,” said the elf. Though he wasn’t in a hurry to sweep the mage off his feet and drag him to the bedroom. Orsino’s voice suggested that the enchanter was more in need of a company than in romance.

Orsino understood the implication too.

“I’m sorry,” said he, looking dejected. “It’s wrong, right? It feels like I’m using your feelings-”

“Please do,” said Fenris lightly, tickling the mage’s neck by his warm breath. “I’m going to be your blanket for tonight. A warm elven blanket; I’ll warm up your back and snore in your ears.”

Orsino chuckled – quietly, but sincere.

“Thank you,” whispered he and finally relaxed into the other elf’s arms. This trustful gesture was worth everything – for this Fenris was ready to subdue his temperament forever.

At night he was frankly lying there like a blanket, though refrained from snoring – he didn’t know if he snored or not, so he was just lying awake. He held the fragile mage close and tried not to think what else could he do with this body. He’d thought about it too much already and stored up so many fantasies, that he’d need years to carry them all out. Though it was too early for that; Fenris realized already that the love of his life was rather hard to win. It was a miracle that he was let so close now - as he began to suspect, a miracle that was a consequence of the mage’s extreme tiredness. Orsino had unbreakable spirit, but fragile heart, and he needed support desperately – from anyone.

And Fenris was used to being useful. Now, when it was a matter of choice, he was happy to oblige.

…

“So, what are demons?” asked Lavellan. She finally managed to carve out a moment of calm and came to Orsino with a question she was long interested in. It was hard to be an Inquisitor: yes, the Advisors were great and capable of solving most of the problems, but there still were things Inquisitor had to see to personally. Rean was feeling like a puppet dragged from town to town and displayed there for kicks.

“I don’t know,” shrugged Orsino, smiling mischievously.

“How can you teach others if you don’t know?”

“Valid point,” laughed the enchanter. He spread his hands to the fireplace thoughtfully. “And that’s exactly what I’m trying to teach them. Do you know how the Round Dance ritual was taught back on Alamar?”

“Please tell,” nodded the girl and sat on the sofa. The enchanter’s chambers were as cozy as ever: flames in the fireplace were clicking peacefully, the air smelled of coal, chocolate and books. Lavellan looked around; she saw a thick navy-blue cloak hanging by the chair together with spiked gauntlets and smiled. Looked like Fenris was staking out a claim on the enchanter at last.

Well, good for them both.

Orsino started his tale, watching the dance of flames in the fireplace. “The hermits of Alamar believed that there are ninety-nine human emotions and ninety-nine demons respectively. They analyzed every demon type with their disciples. Teaching them to recognize and deal with it. And at the last lesson the mentor said: “Finally we have the last demon to learn about. But it’s the most terrible demon of all, so strong that we can’t summon it here for you to look at, as we did with the others. So each one of you will go into another room, alone, to take a glimpse of it. Do that, and your education is complete.” What do you think was there, in this room?” asked Orsino, looking at her with his eyelids mischievously narrowed. He bit his pipe and huffed a smoky cloud.

“I don’t know,” said Lavellan, shaking her head.

“Come on! The answer is rather simple, to be honest. Trivial, even. But triviality doesn’t mean the answer is wrong. Many good truths have the aftertaste of triviality, so less people use them anymore. Pity.”

“I really don’t know,” smiled Rian. “So what was there?”

“A mirror,” said the enchanter simply.

The Dalish elf furrowed her brows. Her culture had other trivialities, though now, when she knew the answer, she could swear she’d heard something like that. Some kind of fairy-tale, maybe?

“What did they mean by that? That every man is a demon too?”

“Something like that,” smiled Orsino. “We are all taught to fear demons from the very childhood. But while trying to resist temptation we often lose the ability to hear our own soul – our true, real wants and dreams. We lose ourselves, forget who we are in this endless running away from temptation. But people don’t need demons to do evil. Our own decisions wreck our lives a lot more effectively than the Fade creatures. We are and always will be our greatest demon.”

Orsino leaned on the sofa back thoughtfully. “Only when the disciple realizes that he can enter the circle and call the demons for the Round Dance. You don’t even need to be a mage to do it.”

“Really?” exclaimed Lavellan, surprised. “But you said these hermits studied the Fade!”

“Well, you’ve seen Dagna. You don’t need to have magic to study it; you also don’t need to be a mage to summon a demon. I’ve told you that Alamar hermits believed that demons are human emotions personified – human, not mage’s. According to their beliefs, when you are tormenting yourself with worry, wondering if you’ve done the right thing, - like now – a Despair demon is born in the Fade.”

“I hope not,” signed Lavellan.

“Who knows. Well, getting to the beginning of our conversation: that’s what I’m teaching, I think. If you are the most terrible demon yourself, it’s silly to fear other demons, don’t you agree?”

Rian laughed and nodded, acknowledging the enchanter’s wittiness. As a matter of fact, the idea worked – Kirkwall mages were a good example of that. Orsino often seemed a mystery, sometimes even more so than Solas. The elven apostate was more of a Fade creature, so there was no mystery he was an enigma; but First Enchanter was very real, and the fact that reality could be mysterious was… well, unexpected. But good.

Lavellan sometimes thought that she’d like to look at the world like Orsino did. It felt like he saw better and more beautiful place than everyone else did.

But she’d taken enough of his time. Though she did have one final question she had to ask before going through the doors: “What kind of demons come to dance with you then?”

“My own, of course,” said the enchanter calmly as he took and opened his unfinished book.

…

Fenris dismissed the exhausted recruits (the elf was in a great mood today, and the unlucky recruits had to live through his enthusiasm), arranged a sparring with the Bull for later and now was looking for Cullen to report about the morning training.

As he found out, Commander was just outside Skyhold: the former templar was sitting on a fallen tree, wrapped in a rug and silver lines of the warming spell. He was sipping from his flask and watching the demons dancing.

As the elf came closer, Cullen nodded at him in greeting and offered his flask. Inside, as Fenris found out, was hot tea with a generous portion of rum.

“I thought it was just for showing other mages the docile demons,” said Fenris as he sat down on the tree. He gestured towards a clearing where Orsino danced.

“No,” Cullen shook his head. “First Enchanter does that from time to time. It’s good for clearing your head, he says. He doesn’t need a guard, not really, but he usually asks someone to watch after. Just in case. Usually Knight Commander did it, but for the last two years it has been my duty. She couldn’t trust herself any more…”

Fenris watched. The music was different now, and the demons too: apart from the other dancers, three figures were circling persistently around the enchanter, pawing over him and grasping at his sleeves: one figure was white, another - pale salmon and the third one - scarlet. At last Orsino put his arm around the scarlet figure’s waist (at least where the woman’s waist should have been) and led it like he was dancing tango. Other demons happily split into pairs and danced right after them.

“You think Knight Commander realized something was wrong with her?” asked Fenris.

“Meredith? Of course, she did!” Cullen gave out a sad smile. “But she didn’t know what was wrong. Now mages tell spooky stories about her – not _our_ mages, as you can see. But she was a fine Commander and a good person. She was strict, that’s true, but that’s how a Commander should be. She and Orsino made a fine team - unbeatable. Meredith knew that templars were the prisoners of the Gallows, just like the mages were. It’s silly to spit at your neighbor. Well, they both had their rows, true, but it was always about trifles. They’ve dealt with real issues together, and rarely disagreed – these scenes and rows were mostly for the others. As a warning, so they wouldn’t forget to be careful.”

The snow on the clearing whirled up and next settled down; there was no sign of demons now. Orsino breathed out, stretched himself, took off his blindfold and walked towards the elf and Commander. Both of them moved, giving the enchanter place to sit. He smiled gratefully, sat down with a sign and started to tie up his hair.

“Discussing anything interesting?”

“Not really. Nostalgic, mostly,” answered Cullen and offered Orsino his cloak. It was accepted with gratitude: the enchanter stood up, wrapped into the warm fabric, put on his boots and sat back, right between them. He deftly took away the flask from Fenris – the Grumpy Elf only smiled crookedly.

“By the way,” said Fenris “Why the blindfold? You don’t seem to need the enclosure.”

There was no enclosure this time; the dance took place right here on the clearing, without any protective means.

“The enclosure serves to protect the audience from demons… and me from the audience. Young people sometimes do silly things, and adults too – it’s possible someone could decide that throwing fireball at the Circle Dance is a good idea. About the blindfold… my tutor could dance with his eyes open, but I can’t.  It’s rather hard to keep calm when an ugly mug of Rage is looming over you…”

“I wouldn’t keep calm either,” noted Cullen. “But that’s interesting: what are they, your demons? I’ve seen this many times, but I still can’t understand what’s going on in this Circle Dance.”

“Who knows?” shrugged the enchanter. “One thing is clear: even if there wasn’t any demons, people would have invented them anyway. They’ve always needed something to blame for their mistakes.”


	19. Chapter 19

The fire was crackling peacefully, and the candles flicked from time to time. The enchanter worked, buried in a pile of papers up to his pointy ears: the Inquisitor with her companions and Advisors left for Halamshiral ball, and Orsino, like Cinderella, was left in charge of domestic duties. Though Fenris personally believed that it was easier to deal with shrewish mages than with Orlaisian lot – at least here you knew what to expect. Furthermore, Orsino had a lot of interesting and useful skills at his disposal.

Alchemy, for example.

Now Fenris was watching the enchanter mixing some powders.

The elf understood from Cullen’s tales that for First Enchanter alchemy was some kind of guilty pleasure – something very personal, the thing you don’t show outsiders. Was this attitude an old habit, born out of necessity, or something else – who knows? One thing was clear though: a few people could claim they’d seen Orsino making one of his trademark concoctions with peculiar effects.

Fenris could claim that now. Though he wasn’t going to.

When the mage was busy with alchemy, he looked mesmerizing. His movements were swift and very precise: thin fingers were handling the ingredients and fragile glass equipment with such delicacy that it looked like magic. This kind of magic Fenris liked better.

The Grumpy Elf curled on the sofa and was blinking dozily, like a giant cat. He was waiting for Orsino to finish his work, as usual; the elf knew already that no one was going to throw him out of the room (except perhaps nudging a little if he was getting in the way), and used this knowledge for his advantage.

“Fenris, you are falling asleep as you sit there,” scolded him Orsino. The mage stepped away from a complicated system of flasks and bowls, where some slow chemical process was going on, and took out a book with a pack of paper. “Go to bed and sleep properly, I still have work to do.”

The elf shook his head. He came here for Orsino, to be near him – as near as he was let to be – and wasn’t going to get out of here just because it was getting late. So he half-rose from the sofa.

“I’ve got a better idea. Come here,” said he, reaching out for the enchanter.

Orsino frowned suspiciously, but did as he was asked. He was immediately pulled closer and seated with his back pressed to Fenris’ chest; the Grumpy Elf embraced his mage with his arms and nuzzled into the crown of his head. As a result, Orsino was placed comfortably on a hybrid of a sofa and a warm elf.

“Good?” Fenris breathed out into the mage’s hair.

Orsino fidgeted for a moment and resigned to his fate. He reached out for his book, opened it, placed a paper sheet on the left page and took out his quill. And finally relaxed, biting the quill end thoughtfully.

“Actually, yes,” said he. “And you?”

“Mhm,” replied Fenris, enjoying the scent of the elven mage: a mix of juniper decoction (the enchanter brewed his own shampoo, as he claimed that without it his hair would have become completely gray a long time ago), tobacco smoke, ink, lyrium and snow.

“I guess the answer is yes,” smirked Orsino.

They sat like that for quite a time; Fenris was drowsing, breathing sleepily into the mage’s neck and sometimes stirring, pulling Orsino closer. The fire was cracking peacefully, eating away the firewood, and the book pages were rustling quietly.

Suddenly Orsino pushed away his book and quill.

“That’s positively impossible!” said he blankly, turned over in the other elf’s embrace and pressed his lips next to his.

Dozy and relaxed elf didn’t even realize that he was being kissed – it felt like a nice dream…

Whoa!

Hoo oo!

He was really being kissed – wholeheartedly, with skill and passion that wasn’t usually associated with guarded First Enchanter. Fenris woke up immediately and kissed back with enthusiasm; he definitely had a lot to learn from the elder elf, as he couldn’t seize the initiative.

Suddenly, after absolutely mind-blowing tongue movement, the enchanter pulled away.

“I apologize,” said he, and his eyes sparkled with immensely bright green. “I couldn’t help myself. I thought I would, but it looks like I’ve over-estimated myself.”

“But why? What for?” asked Fenris, puzzled.

“Because of you, you big oaf,” signed Orsino bitterly. “Because you don’t need me, not really. I have no idea what kind of whim it is, but I can’t play noble any more. You are… you are too much!”

“Am I so good?” Fenris brightened up.

He was immediately given a light slap upside the head; he was called oaf again (but in a very gentle voice) and was promised that if they didn’t get to bedroom right now, he, Orsino, was going to lose it. Fenris was intrigued (oh, the fantasies he got! And the kiss was a clear indicator that the enchanter could teach him a lot about… well, _that_ ), but decided to save the kinky stuff for later. What was he told? To the bedroom? Right away!

He swept up the other elf, who gasped in surprise, and marched out of the room with confidence.

The bed was a bit too narrow… For humans. But two elves could settle there rather nicely, thought Fenris, and gently put the mage down on the blankets. Orsino looked at him with his impossibly beautiful eyes and reached out for the collar of his robes.

Fenris felt his blood boiled in a flicker of a second. He jumped out of his clothes faster than ever in his life and laid over the mage, who just started undressing. He was clearly in need of a helping hand, and Fenris was happy – _very_ happy - to oblige.

Everything that was hidden from him by the devious robes was subject for a thorough, meticulous exploration; milky white skin just begged to be kissed, especially rare birthmarks (the brave explorer found a few at the thigh and was utterly excited), old scars (a patch of rough skin on the elbow, left after the acid burn, and two blade marks – Fenris promised himself to kill the bold bastard who had dared to made the attempt on _his_ enchanter) and other very interesting parts… Orsino wasn’t left indifferent to the elf’s ministrations; he encouraged Fenris with gasps of pleasure, moans and other intriguing sounds. Ever and again he seized the initiative – after all, Fenris’ armor too kept hidden a lot of interesting stuff that was worthy of attention.

Both explorers slowed down only after a couple of hours and fell asleep on the mage’s narrow bed, determined to get on with it in the morning.

…

“Fenris, my dear elven friend,” said Varric to the elf at breakfast. “You’d better reduce the intensity of your glow, or the people would get blind.”

The elf turned to him and looked the dwarf up and down with his usual grumpy expression. Though it didn’t produce the usual effect.

“Nope, no good,” noted the dwarf. “You need to work on it. You can’t just roam here with a look that screams ‘I’ve just got laid, and it was so-o good!’ Though…” Varric glanced briefly at Solas’ rooms and signed in defeat. “Never mind. You elves are two of a kind. Whatever.”

Though Fenris wasn’t listening. He was looking at the rotunda doors, where Orsino was talking to the other elven mage. Th enchanter noticed him and smiled, distracted from his talk with Solas; Fenris felt his facial muscles move by their own accord, mirroring his smile.

“Yep, there is no point in talking to you both,” commented Varric as the elf moved forward, towards his precious enchanter. The dwarf looked pleased with himself though: Fenris was a friend (whatever the elf himself thought about it), and they’d got enough drama here to last for a few lifetimes. After all, happy stories are good for the soul.

The dwarf froze on a spot. His eyes twinkled, the mouth opened and shut back; Varric plopped down on the bench, grabbed a sheet of paper and promptly started writing something.

…

A couple of days later Fiona and the loudest ‘freedom for mages!’ activists came down with a very weird sickness. The only symptom was change of the skin colour from normal to bright and cheerfully green. Adan was confused (not very sincerely, though), so after a short scene and a few bad words the mages locked themselves up in their chambers – to wait till their skin returned to normal. Other mages chuckled disrespectfully and tried to be less conspicuous – no one wanted to see a green face in the mirror.

…

“…Don’t you dare! Your First Enchanter, by the way, sleeps with a creature good enough only for a freakshow!”

Fenris was heading to Orsino’s chambers when he heard the yelling in the library; he thought about going in and having a look who the brave (and _so very_ stupid) speaker was, but then he heard a familiar and unmistakable sound of a nose being broken.

“Are you mad??” came a feeble cry, and someone rushed away through the library doors – right into Fenris’ hands.

The elf gave out an evil grin. “Hello,” said he cheerily. “I can show you a thing or two about us freaks. Do you want me to?”

A miserable-looking, weedy mage in standard blue robes grew pale as snow – looked like even the broken nose stopped bleeding as all the blood rushed down. “I… I wasn’t talking about you!” he snuffled weakly and, as he realized he was offering excuses, tried to make an exalted face expression (as one could with a puffy nose). “You don’t understand the damage the likes of you do to the Circles’ reputation!”

Fenris eloquently pounded his fist into his palm, suggesting that he would like to describe his opinion about Circles and reputation in details. The mage gurgled something and disappeared so fast that it looked like teleportation.

The Grumpy Elf snorted angrily.

Yes, he was a slave. He didn’t have any education – he hadn’t even been able to read till a few years ago, but that didn’t mean he was an idiot. He was biased – yes, but not without reason. But lack of education doesn’t mean a dumb mind. Knowledge complements your wits, not substitutes it. The elf was confident about him being smart – he wouldn’t survive without it.

He was smart enough to understand that if First Enchanter didn’t have any problems with his lover being a former slave, no one else had the right to say anything – it merely wasn’t their business. But he didn’t have a wish to explain it to people who were dumb enough to think that their opinion mattered.

Richard emerged from the library doors.

He was Senior Enchanter from Kirkwall Circle – and a blood mage. Fenris knew it for sure – he saw it. But at the same time Richard was the one who pulled Orsino out from Chantry ruins, and the elf was grateful enough for the latter to turn a blind eye to the former.

Double standards? Maybe. No one said that happiness was easy – or fair.

“Does this happen often?” asked Fenris amicably.

“From time to time,” replied the mage pensively. “I wanted to talk to you, by the way. It’s a tradition, as far as I know. So, do I need to describe what we’d do to you if First Enchanter Orsino gets hurt because of you?”

“No need,” nodded the Grumpy Elf.

The mage nodded back and offered his hand. Fenris hesitated for a moment, but reached out and shook it.

Orsino loved his Circle and couldn’t be without it – that Fenris knew by now. So, as these mages meant a lot to enchanter, he’d have to maintain relations with them – amicable, if possible. The fact that he knew these mages helped: mostly they were disciplined, smart and rather nice people. After all, Richard did broke a nose of another mage and not just for his senior, but for Fenris too. And the elf liked his choice – not every mage was able to make a good punch to the face.

“If they get too annoying, send them to me,” offered he. “More practice in swearing and hitting people can’t hurt.”

The mage snorted and nodded in agreement. They both walked away, satisfied with each other.

…

“Richard, how did he end up in Kirkwall?” asked Fenris.

The enchanter patted the elf’s head: Fenris was laying on the sofa with his head on Orsino’s lap, watching thoughtfully the ceiling (the plastering was old, with lots of cracks and dark patches of candle snuff) and the enchanter, leaning over a book. The sofa was still too short, and the elf was swinging his _extra_ legs slightly.

“He wanted to bring back his sister. She drowned at the day he refused to accompany her, because he had a date. He blamed himself. But he realized very quickly that what he did manage to bring back wasn’t his sister at all. He came to the Circle himself and told the mages everything; they destroyed the cadaver he created and sent Richard to Kirkwall.”

“Oh. Right,” said Fenris. He snatched up Orsino’s palm that was petting him and placed a kiss on the long fingers.

Looked like they’d get along fine, Richard and him. At least Senior Enchanter didn’t crave for power and was able to admit his mistakes. Good.

“Why the sudden interest?” asked Orsino.

“Well… We’ve had a little chat. He is the closest to relative you have, right?”

Orsino looked down at him in sincere surprise: “What? What kind of chat?”

“A chat about what happens to me if I hurt you,” replied Fenris. “The usual stuff. You know, you have a rather good Circle.”

First Enchanter furrowed his brows and signed – he didn’t see any logic here, but suspected it was a good thing. He took away his palm from the other elf’s hand and continued with the petting. “I guess I don’t want to know it…”

“Yes. It’s fine, really. Varric claimed it’s all right – a family business, he said.”

“Well, if Varric said so,” said Orsino incredulously, but decided not to pursue it and to pay attention to his book instead. He absentmindedly petted Fenris, who eventually dozed off and started to purr contentedly.


	20. Chapter 20

Orsino was thoughtfully following the lyrium lines with his finger, and they glowed softly to the touch.

“Does it hurt?”

“It doesn’t now,” Fenris shook his head calmly. His markings ached if he wasn’t using them for long, and _combat mode_ was still painful, but besides that they didn’t bother him much. Maybe that’s because he just didn’t clearly remember the time he didn’t have them – he couldn’t picture himself without his markings.

“I’ve found out what kind of ritual it could have been. Solas agreed with me.”

“Hm?”

The enchanter smiled, lifted slightly (Fenris immediately jumped to the opportunity to look him over – he’d never get tired of the view) and pointed his finger at the other elf’s chest.

“There is a dot here, don’t you see? And here, and there… This pattern consists of dots linked by lines. Long ago, before the elves invented Vallaslin, the best elvhen warriors used to mark their skin with a celestial map – one of the four quarters of it – and linked the stars into a unique pattern. Look: this dot and this one make Judex, and these – Peraquialus.”

Fenris rose his head and tried to get a good look at where the enchanter had found the constellations. He looked over the lines thoughtfully – he was so used to them by now that stopped actually seeing them. As a matter of fact, the markings did look like constellations, only the linking lines were wrong.

“Why the quarters of the sky?” asked he.

“Because,” said Orsino as he laid down on the other elf’s chest. “Every quarter was associated with a certain season. You have the third quarter, meaning autumn. You are the warrior of the autumn sky…”

Hm… That probably sounded better than Lyrium Ghost.

“But what does it mean?”

“No idea,” admitted the enchanter with a sign. “It was all so long ago that we don’t have any records from these times. Even Solas couldn’t help much – the Fade dwellers have only precious few dreams about these warriors.”

The Grumpy Elf placed a soft kiss on the mage’s hair and pulled him closer, wrapping him in his body warmth. ‘ _You are my autumn sky_ ,’ he thought, overcome by tenderness.

The mage, tired after a long day, was already asleep.

…

Skyhold was undergoing the next wave of shattering experience.

The Inquisitor brought from Orlais yet another mage (Lavellan herself claimed she had nothing to do with it and the mage tagged along at her own accord), who in return told them about ancient elven artifacts Corypheus supposedly was immensely interested in. Fenris smiled sourly: so now the damn thing decided to trample the elven legacy. What, did he run out of Tevinter artifacts?

The problem came from unexpected source: Orsino and Solas used to get on splendidly, in case of need combining their efforts without question (if they had to plan or figure out something, or to put some really annoying idiot in his proper place), but suddenly they set the fur flying – and because of what?

Lavellan was the first to discover the issue – she creeped to the library to hide here from Orlaisian delegation. Though now there was neither piece nor quiet, usually associated with libraries.

“… the world would be whole without the Veil!”

“Maker forbid!”

“How you of all people could not see that the world is not as it supposed to be?”

“I don’t. No one gave me the manual with the world’s expanded outline and marks _should_ and _should not_!

The mages clashed like two cats: thin Orsino, disheveled and pissed off like hell, and scowling Solas, towering over the shorter mage menacingly.

“The elves die because they can’t exist properly in the world with a Veil!”

“Screw them!” snarled Orsino.

“Hey!” cried Lavellan. “The elves are your people too!”

The enchanter shook himself like he really was a cat. “Now that really annoys me. Why all sentient creatures want only to herd together and pronounce themselves a nation? Why should I care about elves? We have nothing in common apart from the shape of our ears. I don’t _know_ other elves, I don’t know how they live, what they think, what they want and why I owe them anything!”

“That’s the attitude that nearly killed our culture!” barked Lavellan.

Solas pushed her to the doors unapologetically. “Rian, go away. Please. We don’t need to add the Dalish issue in this too.”

“What is it with you all and the Dalish?” flared the Inquisitor. She sat her hands and legs against the doorframe, stubbornly refusing to leave the discussion.

“They are nothing but naïve children, playing with adult toys and twisting all that was left from the elvhen culture! The scraps they treasure so much are worthless – I’m ashamed to see what became of the elves!” cried Solas, clutching his head in true horror.

“You think the same of us, don’t you?” asked Lavellan, turning to the enchanter.

“It’s one thing to have a great past, and the other – to be worthy of it,” said he.

“But you were one of us! Yes, your clan did you wrong, I know that, but there should have been good things too, right?”

“I apologize, but I don’t like the Dalish,” said Orsino angrily. “They are so engrossed in their dreams of what they used to be that they don’t see what they are now. It is pathetic, really. Humans managed to build an Empire, ruin it and built a few new ones; the dwarfs improved all technologies possible and even came to the surface; Kossith created a religion that is second to none and an army that Tevinter is barely keeping at bay… And only Dalish live like savages – they’ve created nothing. They did nothing. All they care of are tales so old and obscure that no one could tell anymore if they are real or just fancies of some clan Keeper, who had strange mushrooms for his dinner. What’s the point in being proud of your past if all you are now is a pathetic barbarian who is barely able to string two sentences together? Why cling to the past instead of creating something new out of it? I don’t understand that. And now the elven culture is like an old, useless zombie that is falling apart, but the elves in their masochistic stubbornness continue to reanimate it, scared to death of adding some new part.”

Rian was sagging pitifully by the end of his speech. She turned away; the mages must have realized they’d overdid it, because she felt a soft touch to her shoulder.

“I did ask you to go away,” reminded Solas, but without bite. “Sorry. We’ve had a slight disagreement, and it’s hard to snap out of it.”

“Particularly when a certain someone has added firewood to a long-burning discussion,” said the other voice, sounding very close: Orsino came to them and offered her his flask. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

Lavellan wiped a furtive tear, accepted the flask and sipped – whatever it was, the liquid burned her throat and warmed her stomach. It did help though.

She passed the flask back to its owner. Orsino offered it amicably to Solas, who accepted it with a defeated sigh and sipped the contents.

“At least we agree about the Dalish,” said the elven apostate apologetically. “Though the Dalish themselves might not like it. I do apologize, Inquisitor.”

“Forget it,” shrugged Rian. “I shouldn’t interfere, so that was partially my fault too. But what you were arguing about?”

“About the future,” smirked Orsino. “Someone there doesn’t want to give this world a chance and craves to remake it.”

“Remake how?” asked Lavellan, puzzled.

“Theoretically talking, of course. Don’t worry over it, dear,” reassured her the enchanter. He sat down on the library sofa and put out his smoking pipe.

That was a good sigh. The mage’s mood clearly switched to peaceful mode.

“The creation of the Vail is a fault of a single person,” remarked Solas, now calmly settled in the armchair. “The world is not like it was supposed to be – all because of his actions.”

“And I think you are mistaken,” replied Orsino softly. “Even Corypheus is not alone. He is supported by Venatori, Calpernia, Wardens and many others – and that’s the real problem. Alone he isn’t capable of doing much. They support him because of contradictory nature of the living beings: we are always itching and fretting from dissatisfaction, always believe we are worthy of something we haven’t been given. Whatever happened long ago, it happened not because of a single person, but because it needed to happen. And it was the fault of the elves - as well as the fact that they couldn’t live with the consequences.”

“But maybe no one could live with such consequences,” retorted Solas. “You are talking theories, Orsino. You haven’t seen the past, the glory and beauty of it – it is worth to recover. At least the elves should be given a chance to create it anew.”

“The past is a lesson, not a rule. If you dwell on the past too much, you are risking losing your future.”

Solas jumped from his seat and started pacing, gesturing wildly. “But how else could we put the elves on their mettle? I tried talking to them, tried offering them knowledge and help, tried to teach them – without any result! At least city elves are not opposed to talking, but still it serves to no purpose. The Dalish though are not interested in anything but hunting and keeping their precious customs intact – customs they have long lost the sense of!”

Orsino snorted. “You can say that again! I tried teaching them too, as I know elven a lot better than the _right_ elves. But they didn’t want to learn. When I asked what was so right about them in this case, they started to spit some snobbish nonsense. They said I was corrupted by shemlens! Now this is racism. And it is ugly no matter how you look at it.”

Solas nodded in ardent agreement. “And the Vallaslin! How the elves have hit upon the idea of applying markings on their faces, I don’t know. It is painful! It spoils the facial features! Dwarfs believe that the face markings are the sigh of the lowest Caste, but even here the elves distinguished themselves by alternating logic.”

“The elves are wrong,” added Orsino calmly. “It hurts to admit it, but it’s true. Unfortunately, the elves themselves don’t want to admit their mistakes – therefore they can’t remedy them. If only a single Keeper opened his eyes and tried to give the children a real education instead of petty tales of former glory, this new generation would be free from the past mistakes. But no, no one wants to distress himself, and year after year the elves continue with this miserable lifestyle, wandering with their eyes closed.”

“Could we talk about something else?” asked the only Dalish elf present. Her tone was very sour.

Solas stopped with whatever he wanted to say. He signed: “If only we could make the world as it was…”

“At what costs?” interrupted Orsino his speech. “By destroying this world? Thank you very much, but I tend to decline. I do not agree to die so that someone in the future could theoretically live a better live. A bit egoistic from me, but true nonetheless.”

“But the elvhen-!”

“They. Are. Dead!” stated the enchanter.

“Not entirely,” the elven apostate shook his head. “The old blood is still there, and so is the hope. The elvhen might be reborn and live again, given the chance.”

“The elves screwed up their chance,” said the new voice. The voice belonged to Hawke, who appeared in the doors just behind Lavellan. “Sorry, but you were so welcomingly loud that I couldn’t miss my chance to add a penny to your argument. Orsino said one good and right thing: whatever happened, after the creation of the Veil all nations had an equal start. And it’s the fault of the elves themselves that now they have nothing.”

“Should I retreat from here?” grumbled Lavellan. Now she really, _really_ hated discussing elves.

“Why?” smiled Hawke. “I don’t mean you, dear Rian. Neither I mean Orsino, Solas and of course I don’t dare to think so about Fenris. You see, those who are worthy accomplished everything by themselves. They don’t need another chance. But for the unworthy even the unlimited number of chances serves to no purpose. The world balances itself pretty good without our interventions, Veil or no Veil.”

“That’s…” Solas looked to be at loss. “That’s a really interesting point.”

“Driven from personal experience, I guess,” smiled Orsino and puffed out a smoke cloud.

Hawke smiled and performed a light theatrical bow. The mages shook their heads simultaneously; looked like they’d really calmed down and weren’t going to argue in the immediate future.

“So, are we going to the Temple of Mythal or not?” asked Lavellan at last. Se really hoped that the argument wasn’t about that.

“Of course we are,” replied Solas, as if a bit surprised by her question.

“Good,” nodded Hawke. “So, Orsino, are you planning any more surprises for us? I’m asking because last time I saw our Commander he was wearing a rather… peculiar expression on his face.”

“You’ll see for yourself. If, of course, we manage to find a good mabari kennel,” said the mage, and his eyes twinkled with mischief.

Hawke snorted amicably, and the last clouds of bad mood evaporated without a trace.

…

Later, when the evening was already creeping over the fortress roofs, Fenris stepped in the First Enchanter’s rooms. He was considering in earnest moving here with all his things (for weeks already he was visiting his own rooms only to grab a weapon or some clothing), but didn’t know how to raise the question.

Osrino was smoking on the sofa, seemingly deep in thought. The elven warrior sat close to him, sank back into the sofa and signed in contentment.

He was really starting to like the smell of tobacco.

“I think I should ask you,” said Orsino in calm, quiet voice. “Why have you chosen me? How?”

“We-ell,” started Fenris and fell silent, not sure how to start explaining something so complex and so simple. After a pause he opted for the most obvious thing. “You have beautiful eyes.”

The enchanter looked at him with the said eyes incredulously, as if asking: and _this_ is your argument?

“What?” said Fenris, embarrassed. “Remember how we’ve met? It was the day of the Qunary rebellion. I bumped into you – oh, I really wanted to apologize, it wasn’t intentional.”

“In fact, I do remember,” nodded Orsino. “Though at that time I was thinking only about how the hell I was going to get back on my feet… We’d just completed a long and tiresome experiment, so the Qun, rebellion and other entertainment was not welcome at all.”

“So that’s why Meredith rushed to help you…”

“Of course she did. And, what about this meeting?”

“Well, I saw you and thought: what beautiful eyes he has… On the Seheron island there is a moss, light green with silver threads - the same colour as your eyes. Very… well, pretty.”

Orsino laughed at his embarrassment. “All right, let’s state that you’ve wriggled yourself out of it and managed to convince me.”

“Now it’s my turn. Did you like me then?”

“Hm-m,” Orsino mused about it. “You are indeed attractive, one should be blind to deny that. And every time we met you were wearing such a cute embarrassed expression… Don’t growl at me, you did look cute. Though I didn’t know then why you were embarrassed – I had no idea I was the actual reason. So I was just admiring you from afar.”

“Ha! So you were admiring!” rejoiced Fenris and launched at the enchanter to plant a passionate kiss on his lips. He was really getting used to tobacco – the kiss felt hot, tasty and spicy.

“Yes, I was. I’m not made of stone after all,” laughed Orsino and pushed away the too enthusiastic elf. The mage barely managed to save his pipe from falling down. “Fenry, not now! It’s broad daylight!”

“So what?” asked Fenris, puzzled. He didn’t see any problem here.

“Someone might come in with some questions or problems…”

“If they do, I’ll make them regret it,” snorted Fenris and finally managed to flip the enchanter on the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me long enough... I have too much work and only scraps of free time now, sorry. Gods, I hate audits.


	21. Chapter 21

Sleep did not come easy at the night before the next crusade. The prospect of wandering at some Wilds, even if they were Arbor, in search of some elven voodoo temple wasn’t appealing neither to the experienced warrior (he hated jungles with passion – too many places for enemy to hide and too many things to fall on your head), nor to First Enchanter (he didn’t care about jungles, but had been discussing and calculating something with his Circle nearly till dawn, so was in dire need of sleep).

When the mage at last stepped into his bedroom, he was greeted with a welcoming sight of Fenris, sleeping in his bed. As Orsino approached, the snoozing elf grumbled, worked his hands free and pulled the enchanter under the blankets – only to curl cozily around him.

“Fenry?” called Orsino and furrowed his brows pensively. “Sorry. Do you mind me calling you like that? It just sounds more… affectionate.”

“M-m… No, I don’t mind,” purred the other elf. “Do you mind me being with you… on the first name basis? I just like your name. It sounds… good.”

“Really?” Orsino sounded surprised. “No, I don’t mind it, of course. By the way, as far as I know, my name came from the ancient chronicles, before the Andrastian time. Orsino was some kind of a nobleman who married his page-boy - or something like that. My mentor from Ansburd loved history and ancient texts.”

Fenris rose himself upon one elbow: “He gave you a name? But why? Didn’t you already have one?”

‘Well, back then I was a child who actually hated everything Dalish. I asked him to give me a new name, and so he did. I remember myself trying desperately to forget all things Dalish, as if striving to become someone else – someone who had never been left alone in the snowy woods. It’s strange, really,” added the enchanter after a pause. “I’ve really forgotten it. My Dalish name.”

Fenris laid back and snuggled up to the elder elf. “No matter,” said he; he also had a name that was his once, a name that meant nearly nothing to him now. It felt like the name Leto belonged to some other person. And maybe it did.

“Come, have some sleep. We still have four hours left. Sleep well, Orsino.”

The enchanter smiled and closed his eyes.

…

They did manage to find a mabary kennel after all.

Though is wasn’t as hard to find it as to actually convince the kennelman to put his precious dogs at the mercy of blood mages; but the Herald of Andraste’s authority was now greater than ever. Who could say no to the Herald of the divine bride? The gloomy Ferelden kennelman couldn’t.

“I’ve long wanted to ask you,” said Lavellan to Orsino, who was watching gravely over the unloading of big crates with very grumpy dogs in them. “You are no blood mage yourself, but you still participate in every ritual. How so?”

“I’m something like a coordinator. Focus, if you prefer,” explained the mage absent-mindedly. “My task is to distribute the energy flow among the other ritual participants. And, by the way, magic is always magic, it has the same laws no matter of its kind. I can’t initiate a blood magic spell, but I can use it and manage it freely afterwards. Sir Valentain, if you please,” nodded he to the templar Lieutenant.

The knight pressed his fist against his chest for a moment, saluting the enchanter, and gestured to his men. The templars gathered around and moved smoothly into the woods.

Fenris looked around in great displeasure.

His bad feelings turned out right – the place was swarming with enemies. As if it wasn’t enough, the guides also warned them about poisonous spiders and venomous snakes; not to mention that there was enough mutated red templars to spoil any landscape. At least the Grumpy Elf didn’t need to go to this Mythal temple. He was completely indifferent to elven culture, and for him the temple was just a target – some building they needed to get the Inquisitor in, preferably in one piece. So Fenris was giving Morrigan bewildered eyes as he watched her swooning over every piece of stone with elven squiggle on it. Pathetic, really.

Instead of searching for some stupid temple the elf was helping Sir Valentain’s squad to hunt down the game and red templars. The corpses and alive enemies were then taken to the camp, where mages were hastily drawing a complicated giant pentagram on the ground, ripping the harshly smelling turf open with their daggers. Orsino was standing inside the drawing; his staff acted as a center, and there were some ropes fastened to it – the mages used them to draw perfect circles on the ground. First Enchanter was watching the others intently and checking the already written sighs and runes.

At last it was time to place the dogs at the star arm’s ends.

The animals weren’t happy with the prospect. They growled, howled and showed their teeth – they liked blood mages no more than other people did. But mabari were clever and faithful beings (though they most likely regretted it already); they obeyed the kennelman commands and stayed where they were told, no matter what they themselves thought about it. The forest animals’ bodies and drowsily moving red templars weren’t nice neighbors.

The Inquisition froze in waiting.

After the final check Orsino pulled out a phial with a pale red potion. He gently patted the biggest dog’s head, whispered something in the triangle ear and painted some sigh on the broad fluffy forehead with a brush, dipped into the potion. The mabari whined sadly, its tail tucked between its legs, but didn’t move otherwise.

Fenris and Kirkwall templars stood around the pentagram. The mages moved inside to their places and took out their daggers, holding them to the red mutant’s necks. Fenris swallowed and looked away. He hated the cynical murders needed for blood magic - the pragmatism of sacrificing someone’s life to achieve a goal… Not that he was feeling any pity for the horrible mutated templars – killing them was pure mercy. Orsino did suggest that there should be a way to make them normal persons again, but a few rare experiments were unsuccessful: red lyrium acted just like the normal one in rituals, but incorporated in a living being it became illogical and unpredictable.

The mages started a plaintive tune. The bright sunlight at the clearing suddenly became less bright and started to wreathe - like it was sucked out by a greedy leech. Poor mabaris laid back their ears; blood poured on the pentagram and gathered on its lines, which began to emit a satisfied glow. The piles of animal corpses moved a bit – it looked like they were shrinking.

And the dogs started to grow. They grew a few more limbs, scales, horns and thorns; they became two, three times bigger. The tune was cut off on a high note – the bright sunlight poured over the clearing, showing off the result of the ritual.

The mabaris were no more – in their place the monsters stood.

In red templars’ stead Fenris preferred to run away now, while they still could. Those weren’t dragons, of course, but they came pretty close: giant, bone-chillingly scary creatures with thick armor, sharp teeth looked extremely dangerous and, as they all soon learned, very fast.

Orsino hit the ground with his staff; the energy lines that were braided around it fell off – other mages swiftly caught them and linked to their own staffs. First Enchanter had only two lines left – the leashes of two monsters.

“Right. Let’s get going,” ordered Orsino, and his monsters gave out a terrible cry in agreement. The mage turned to the templars: “Guard the pentagram!”

Sir Valentain nodded.

And with that they moved into Arbor Wilds.

The mages marched in the first ranks with former mabaris on glowing leashes: the monsters moved swiftly through the jungles, leaving behind rather fine, even if not very straight path. They smelled out the enemies a mile off; they trampled red templars or bit them into halves. Fenris even saw Orsino’s monster spit a fireball at the distant group of enemies. Actually, they’d got to the temple with astonishing ease and speed; the problems started afterwards, as they caught up with Corypheus squad.

No, they did manage to scatter red templars and properly trample Corypheus (to be on the safe side - more than once). But as they proudly marched to the temple walls, it became clear that no one wanted to make this easy.

The blasted monstrosity rose from the dead.

This Corypheus thing just took another body – and turned it into his own.

Fenris tightened his grip over the sword: he’d liked to personally inform the ancient Magister what he thought of him and the likes of him, but Corypheus had other plans. He just shot upwards and flied over the outer temple walls.

“Hey, that’s not fair!” cried their own Tevinter mage, outraged with the enemy who didn’t seem to have any code of honor.

 “Let’s go after him!” ordered Lavellan.

“We’ll stay and hold a bridgehead,” offered Orsino. “I’m not sure Mythal would be happy to see blood mages in her temple. Go, we’ll deal with the rest.”

The Inquisitor nodded as she and her squad strode to the temple gates.

Fenris stayed too.

It was a very long day – and all this time they were fighting with red templars. There seemed to be an endless supply of them – though mabaris made certified monsters, there were only two dozens of them. So there was enough work for both Fenris and other Inquisition soldiers. After three long hours of hellish fighting and dragging through jungles Cullen finally commanded the retreat.

Fenris didn’t remember clearly how they’d got to the camp. The mages by that time looked worse than some corpses; Orsino, pale as Death, was stumbling at every step and was barely moving, followed by grumpy Fenris who was supporting him. Nevertheless, the first thing the mage did as they got to the camp was walking straight to the pentagram.

Other mages took their places on the drawing and and arranged the monsters with pain and misery; they singed in unison some complicated tune – and the clearing exploded with blood, pouring from the thin air. It disappeared swiftly though. But now instead of horrid monsters on the ground there stood filthy, dumbfounded, but very much alive mabaris.

The kennelman ran towards his dogs with a triumphed cry. The dogs burst into happy barks and rushed to him, bouncing merrily.

Orsino, who was standing only because of his staff, smiled at the sight. “Good work, everyone. Thank you,” said he to Kirkwall mages and templars. Some of them even managed a tired smile in return.

Fenris rushed forward just in time to catch First Enchanter before he collapsed on the ground. He easily took the thin and light elf in his arms and marched purposefully to his tent, feeling understanding and even some approving glances on him.

…

The night closed over the Arbor Wilds.

Searching the way back at dusk and with extremely tired mages and soldiers in tow was pure madness, so they decided to stay the night and go back to Skyhold in the morning. Someone mentioned that Inquisitor had found something exiting in the temple, outmatched Corypheus and somehow managed to get to the headquarters already. Fenris was glad that their enemies took a beating, but couldn’t stay this glad long enough. Honestly, he was fed up with this stupid war – he wanted their well-deserved victory and peace, preferably right now.

And sleep.

The Grumpy Elf impudently stayed in Orsino’s tent. After all, he’d got the Circle’s approval, Kirkwall templars already treated him as one of their own, and the others’ opinion didn’t mean anything to him.

Now Fenris was scrutinizing his hand, that was laying peacefully next to Orsino’s. They say elves are all the same – alike like the two gloves from one pair. Looked like they don’t know a thing about elves. Fenris’ palm, for example, was like a giant wolf’s paw next to a thin and delicate cat’s paw.

The enchanter was sleeping now. The fainting gave way to a deep sleep, and Fenris decided it was for the best. So he just laid next to the mage, spooning him and warming his back, hugged him close and closed his eyes.

They also say you’ll think better after go-od nigh… z-z-z…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a long delay. Did I mention that I hate audits? It's a hard time for an interpreter, because people are talking All. The Damn. Time! Even at lunch! For the first two days I really thought I'd die from hunger, till I grew bold enough to steal a bite here and there ))  
> Aftermaths of an audit are even worse, because it means a lot of papers to translate. The auditor, it seemed, was selebraiting Christmas already - his written recomedations from time to time miraculously switched from English to German, sometimes even in the middle of the sentence. We've fun decyphering it ))


	22. Chapter 22

“That’s madness,” signed Lavellan. “Just think about it: if Mythal is real, then all the other gods are real too!”

The army had gotten back to Skyhold only just. People had managed to wash up, swallow the late dinner and take a short breath as the new issue appeared: the scouts found Corypheus hanging about the former Breach with obviously malicious intentions. That meant that the Inquisition should again step forward and do something. Will there ever be an end to this?

So, as it was rather late, they just stayed in the library, talking about elven gods. After all, they’d seen a lot of Corypheus lately and no gods.

“And? To hell with them!” shrugged Fenris indifferently.

“But what if gods come to us one day and… hell, say we are wrong? That we live wrong and our world is wrong?” the Inquisitor continued to probe.

“Yeah, we'll get right on that,” snorted Fenris. “I’ve seen mages who considered themselves gods and wanted to decide everything for me… They’d better manage on their own. If the elven gods are itching to tell us what to do, they’d better create some other world and rule it to their hearts’ content. This world belongs to us.”

Orsino let out a smoke cloud and smiled. “I agree,” said he.

“Me too,” added Varric.

“And me, of course,” smirked Hawke.

Cullen too muttered something positive, keeping his gaze on a huge pile of papers. Though Fenris suspected that this pile was just a camouflage for a new masterpiece from mister Tethras; from time to time the severe Commander mask slipped, and Cullen smiled through it.

Well, he’d better corner Varric and demand a copy for himself.

Solas tsked indefinably.

“Maybe,” Rian pinched her nose bridge. “It’s just that… well, to believe in gods is one thing, but to know they exist for real… The former is fine, it even helps sometimes, but I’m not really sure about the latter.”

“Because you don’t need gods, not for real,” said Orsino in his calm, gentle voice. “Real god is a proof that we have no choice, that someone else decides our fate and our own decisions don’t matter. And that’s, I guess, how a lack of freedom really feels.”

“It may be interesting to ask Fiona about that,” added Hawke. “She and the likes of her adore to discuss freedom. Though I still can’t understand what she means by this word.”

Varric snorted, amused. “Because all this is just that – idle, theoretical talking. They argue from the perspective of a person who has never had to earn his living. It always provokes empty rhetoric.”

Fenris snorted. He agreed wholeheartedly.

“Freedom is such a vague, elusive thing that no one can really catch it by the tail,” noted First Enchanter as he bit the pipe’s mouthpiece. “You can be free in your office and be constrained in a forest. We are all bound by our life circumstances, social conventions and our own principles… Look around: is there anyone who is truly free? Many of us here left our cozy homes and simple life to join the Inquisition, vowed to withstand Corypheus – many people even did this voluntarily. Actually, they say that the true freedom is doing what you should at your own free will, without being forced.”

“And without the gods?” smiled Lavellan.

“Exactly,” nodded the enchanter.

…

Later in the evening, after Fenris had discussed with Cullen the next crusade to the Breach (and tried to borrow a book from him – now Fenris was sure it was definitely a book, because Commander instantly blushed, coughed and hurriedly hid it behind his back, looking as if he’d rather die, but not surrender it to Fenris), the elf at last returned to the enchanter’s rooms.

Almost all his things ended up here by now; clothes, a few books with a bookend shaped like Kirkwall raven, his favorite tea and mug, his satchel and whetstone, a wooden saucer with chamomile pattern (a present from Lady Leandra) and lots of other trinkets – all was there. The weapon rack with his swords was still in the barracks, though, but it fitted nicely where it was. Anyway, idiots bold enough to touch his blades were either dead by now or learned their lesson.

The enchanter was standing beside a bookcase, studying the book spines with concentration.

Fenris came closer and hugged him from behind, kissing just the right spot below the nape of the mage’s neck that…

Orsino arched in his arms with a soft moan, trembling a bit.

… yeah, it always produced such an effect.

Fenris kissed the warm skin again, then once more, relishing the encouraging moans and feeling of the body that trembled sweetly under his exploring palms. Hm-m… so sensitive…

Orsino twirled around, threw his arms around the other elf’s neck and kissed him, deeply, fiercely – so that the enchanter wasn’t the only one trembling from pleasure now.

…and passionate.

Fenris wasn’t expecting the elder elf to have such a volcano for a temper, but nevertheless was very pleased with this turn of events. He was really puzzled though: Maker, how did it happen that such a passionate man hadn’t had a partner? In Fenris’ opinion, failing in falling in love with Orsino in a week of knowing the elf meant that you were deaf, blind and dumb like a Ferelden ram.

As Fenris was the lucky one there, he was ready to do everything in his power to make this marvelous in all aspects enchanter voluntarily stay where he was – in his arms. Even if he had to fight with an army of competitors.

First thing off the bat they needed to deal with Corypheus – this time permanently. Damned creature had already costed the enchanter some more gray hair, not to mention that they had to hang around many inhospitable places and do magic that wasn’t good for one’s health. As Fenris found out recently, he extremely disliked obstacles in his personal life and was ready to tear these obstacles apart bare-handed.

…

A bit dumbfounded Inquisition members gathered in the hall.

They came back from the battlefield, and came victorious – but they couldn’t wrap their minds around it just yet.

Slowly, little by little people were coming out of their petrified state and started enjoying the feast instead of absent-mindedly chewing some food.

Kirkwall Circle mages and templars somehow gathered at one table; they also accepted Fenris, who sat beside First Enchanter – the place to the right was miraculously free, like it was meant to the Grumpy Elf from the very beginning. Cullen and Hawke soon joined too, as well as Varric.

Lavellan, who was watching their table secretly, smiled.

Kirkwall people did differ from others.

Here in Skyhold it was really noticeable, because there were lots of different folks here. But those from the City of Chains were drawn to each other, like they were leaves from the same vine: the castle was always buzzing with people, but as two Kirkwall citizens met, they always found some meaningful gesture or words to each other – not some dry greeting, but something significant, something you could say only to a well-known by you, close person. Even Fenris, who was pointedly ignoring most of the living beings like they were just furniture, treated Kirkwall people differently – he _noticed_ them. For a grumpy shadow in lyrium markings it was a huge step forward; the Iron Bull himself put a lot of work into making the elf acknowledge his presence and not to throw a cursory glance like he was an empty space. To be honest, being able to _not_ notice the Bull was a rare talent.

Lavellan thought that these people were like a clan. Yeah, like the Dalish clan, but what brought them together wasn’t the shared race or a common goal – they were just the citizens of the same city. It was hard to feel or explain this connection, but it certainly was there.

If the Inquisition was over one day, these people would still go together. They could part, even go to opposite directions, but at some point they’d gather together again – at the same table, like they did now. Like there was no parting company.

As Lavellan thought about it to this point, she was interrupted by Josephine, and forgot about Kirkwall mystery for a time being.

“Is it over?” asked Fenris his favorite enchanter.

“Most likely it had only just begun,” replied Orsino and put his fork away. He didn’t seem to have much of an appetite today.

Fenris also wasn’t feeling hungry, and he suggested a walk. Orsino heartily agreed. They came out of the hall and stopped on the stone steps to admire a clear night sky.

“There still are many questions without answers,” noted Orsino.

“Hm?”

The enchanter leaned on the banister. “We still don’t know who was this Corypheus and where he really came from. What is the red lyrium and what kind of strange, unbalanced power it has? What was this elven artifact the loss of which made Solas so upset? And, as Dagna suspects red lyrium to be tainted lyrium – what the taint actually is?”

“The Inquisition would need a new goal now, and finding the answers seems to me a worthy one,” offered elf and added cynically: “Since the old goal is laid to rest now…”

“Ha,” said Orsino darkly. “I wonder if we’d be allowed to choose a new goal… It is likely that the fight over power would start from now. As there is no one to save the world from, others would score up a lot of things against Inquisition, real or not. People can’t live in peace, no matter how they strife for it; if they don’t have any issue, they’d organize it by themselves.”

“Yes, everyone wants to be in charge of piece and tell others what to do, I got it. And if others don’t agree, it’s time for new crusading wars.”

The enchanter chuckled scoffingly. In the great hall the music started; here on the stairs they could hear the cheerful song and laughter. Both elves stood in a cozy silence, relishing the feeling.

“What are you planning to do next?” asked Fenris at last.

“While the Inquisition exists, we’d better stay,” replied Orsino. “Where can we go? Blood mages are still not welcome. And after that… we’ll see. And what about you?”

“I’ll stay with you,” shrugged Fenris, as if he was stating the obvious. He was, actually. “I’ll be like… your own templar?”

“More like a demon,” snorted the enchanter. “A desire demon, to be exact.”

“So be it,” agreed the Grumpy Elf easily. “The mages should be tempted by demons, it’s like a universal law. So I’d be yours. A personal one.”

“You are and always will be the best of my demons,” said Orsino with a soft, yet dazzling smile.

Fenris drew the enchanter closer and looked at his eyes, green like a forest moss. “Shall we dance then?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!  
> Or not, as I believe both elves would live many happy years from this moment on.  
> Happy New Year everyone!


End file.
